


A Progression Through Fear: Freeze

by SilusLocke, x57



Series: A Progression Through Fear [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All the warnings, Alternate Reichenbach, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst like there's no tomorrow, Bloodplay, Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Sadism, Sherlock has questionable morals, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Ideation, Underage - Freeform, Underage Sex, and Mayhem, dark!Sherlock, longfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 134,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilusLocke/pseuds/SilusLocke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/x57/pseuds/x57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty has been obsessed with Sherlock ever since the Carl Powers case, before the stunningly intelligent boy was swallowed up first by his family and then by a world of drugs and disillusionment. Now that Sherlock is back on the scene and finally putting his life together, Jim decides it's time to seek what he once longed for. There is only one problem. Sherlock has a tether back to the moral world...in one little man named John Watson. (Alternate Continuity)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that spans three arcs, about half of which are already written. The main pairings are Sherlock/Jim and Sherlock/John, all others are minor pairings and some will not appear until much later (or remain subdued until becoming explicit much later). If you like a slow buildup to your relationships, this might be a good fic for you.
> 
> Chapters will be posted as they're edited.

Sherlock flopped onto the couch, his features settled into the not-quite-sulk that appeared when he'd gone too long without a puzzle to occupy his mind.

It'd been three weeks since the last case of any substance. The dark haired man had stubbornly waved away the posts on the website for the past few days, dismissing them as unsatisfying trivialities that weren't worth his time.

Footfalls approached from the entryway, progressively louder until the door of 221B banged open and the flat’s second inhabitant shimmied awkwardly inside, carrying four large paper bags of groceries. It was a pathetic sight indeed that John came upon. He thought the flat was empty until he spotted Sherlock blending into the couch. He cleared his throat and began putting things away.

Sherlock pressed his hands together in front of his mouth as he continued to stare up at the ceiling, not even sparing a glance for the shorter man; he'd known it was John from the cadence and weight of his footsteps before he'd even opened the door.

Only hesitantly did John approach the refrigerator. "So. Do you think it's about time we moved the eyeballs to the freezer?"

"No good. That'd stop the progression instead of slowing it. They're nearly done."

Really, he'd never understand why John seemed so put off by his experiments. Pursuing knowledge was a noble endeavor, and besides, the containers and utensils were always washed before being used for edibles. He'd concede that it was John who washed them, but there it was. It wasn't his fault that people got the illogical notion that objects were tainted by association, even after being sterilized.

John grimaced and pushed the container of perfectly round, absolutely unnerving, human eyeballs to the far side of the refrigerator. "They're starting to smell…," he muttered, knowing Sherlock's sensitive hearing would catch his protests. He reminded himself not to complain too much. As far as Sherlock being bored usually went, this quiet, pensive state was a blessing.

When he'd finished with the groceries, he put on a pot of coffee, and went to sit in his armchair. He made himself comfortable, enjoying the quiet while it lasted, and opened the newspaper. His pleasant expression fell flat. He was now staring through a hole that took up half the current events section. On the other side of the hole was Sherlock, lying innocent and undisturbed, still staring at the ceiling, not paying any notice. 

"And what, may I ask, did the current events section do to you this morning?"

"An irredeemable braggart's pontifications took up the majority of it." While this could have held true with any number of politicians or celebrities, Sherlock's tone left no question as to the identity of the offender. He usually ignored such things as the banal, pedestrian interests of the public, but was roused to spite whenever his brother's endeavors were in the spotlight. "I did you a favor by burning it, really."

Sherlock turned slightly and eyed his violin case, weighing whether the effort of rising to play would pay off sufficiently in counteracting the doldrums he was immersed in.

John sighed. He doubted he would ever know the intricacies of the rivalry Sherlock felt for his brother. He let the newspaper flop down into his lap.

There were days he would swear up and down that Sherlock was one of the most brilliant men on the planet, bursting with energy and eager to take on the world. Then there were the other days…when his flatmate was shamelessly lazy. Hearing the coffee brewing in the kitchen, he stood to get a cup. He didn't think he'd ever ask this, but…. "I don't suppose you'd want to visit the pub with me later tonight then? You know…if you've got nothing else on."

"What would be the point of that?"

It wasn't that Sherlock didn't enjoy John's company - quite the opposite, really. Pubs, however, were usually not his ‘thing’. Not unless he was using the location to mine information from the local populace.

Part of it was simply that he just didn't care to go out and meet strangers. Most human beings didn't meet his threshold of "worth having a conversation with", much less offering an _enjoyable_ conversation. Usually people put him off social activities as much as Sherlock himself seemed to put them off. There was a barrier that couldn't be passed, and Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to get past it.

"I'll have a cup," he added as he watched John move towards the kitchen, doubtless heading for the coffee.

"Yes, yes, yes…." John took two cups out of the cupboard. It was probably for the best. Sherlock accompanying him on a night out was likely not to end well, or at least not end with the two of them making any friends. He only went himself when they weren't on a case. Really, the thought of Sherlock going out with him, for only a drink, was just silly. He almost felt embarrassed for asking.

"Well," John cleared his throat and sat down with the laptop, handing one cup of coffee to Sherlock. "Let's see anything interesting has popped up overnight."

Sherlock accepted the cup wordlessly, changing to a sitting position on the couch. He gave his violin case another glance and then rose the rest of the way. He took a sip of the coffee, burning his tongue in the process, then set it down on the table and turned his attention to the instrument.

Opening the case and taking rosin to the bow, Sherlock flicked a sideways glance to John. The man's brow slightly furrowed and his tongue occasionally, briefly darted forward between his lips when he was diverting all of his attention to a subject. It was one of the man's small quirks Sherlock enjoyed observing.

It took a moment for John to notice he was being watched, but once he had, he decided to remain as he was. Sherlock occasionally did a…motionless, staring…thing. Ever the observer, he was. Strangely, John didn't mind. He even sometimes found himself doing it to Sherlock in return. So, without discomfort, he opened his email and began to slog through his messages. 

Ever since they had been getting more publicity, the volume had been steadily multiplying. Soon John would be forced to find another way to sort it all. He would have considered hiring a secretary, but that was a Bad Idea. If Sherlock managed to run off his girlfriends, a personal assistant wouldn't last a day.

There was, however, one message that caught his eye. 

Sitting innocuously halfway down John's inbox was one which, judging from the address @cbbc.com, proclaimed itself to have come from the Children's BBC network. He opened it with a raised brow.

_"Dear Dr. John H. Watson,_

_Good morning! I have a proposition for you. A very good one, I do believe._

_First of all, let me introduce myself. I am one of the many, many people who have stumbled upon this wonder of a blog of yours. No doubt you get emails like this all the time from fans, like myself, but I would like to bring a different sort of discussion to your table._

_You see, I'm a television actor. I work out of a small, but growing (hopefully growing, I'm crossing my fingers) studio for children's programmes. We'll be wrapping up the season of our current show in the next few weeks, and well, this is what I've come to ask you:…_

_Imagine: Sherlock Holmes and yourself, Dr. John Watson, finding clues, solving mysteries, and fighting crime on telly. I would like to turn your work into our next television series._

_Children would love it! The ingenuity, the carefully crafted deductive work, and the spontaneity behind your adventures would become a priceless learning experience for young people around the globe._

_I come to you myself because I have been reading your blog for some time, and I would like to extend the invitation to you personally. Our producers are already on board with the idea and would be happy to speak to you as well._

_If you are even the slightest bit interested, I would be overjoyed to meet with you in person to explain myself further._

_Below is my number. You can reach me at any time._

_Sincerely,_

_Richard Brook_

_The Storyteller_  
 _ **B. Street Irregulars Ent., CBBC**_  
 _Mobile: 0207 458 4138 Fax: 0207 458 4139"_

Sherlock put the bow to the strings and tested a few notes, pausing to tune. His eyes had stayed on John, so he didn't miss the small flicker of curiosity that lit up his colleague's face - something had caught his interest.

"More than the usual pleas for assistance in finding lost pets and proving extramarital affairs, I take it?"

"Oh? Um, well….sort of." John wasn't sure that this would be up Sherlock's alley of interest, but his own attention was certainly piqued. "Not a case, an offer. Here, take a look." He turned the computer around on his lap for Sherlock to read.

Sherlock stepped forward and leaned down until he was eye-level with the screen, scanning over the words quickly. His almond eyes narrowed predictably at "children's programmes" and his mouth tightened in disapproval.

Sherlock straightened and abruptly turned the laptop back towards John, completely disinterested. He brought his attention back to his tuning, obviously expecting that to be the end of the matter.

"Uh huh….I take it that's a 'no', then?" John looked over the email once again. He pursed his lips together, considering. "Why not?" He looked up at Sherlock, then back down to the monitor. "I mean, we could meet with him at least…. And you know, all this attention we're getting lately, all this media hubbub? It's not exactly making us any money, now is it?"

_"Children's programme_ , John," Sherlock said, as if that should explain everything succinctly. When John continued to look at him, he sighed, setting the violin down on the table and picking up his coffee mug.

"The money is irrelevant. This Richard Brook is looking to capitalize on what he perceives to be an upcoming celebrity by manipulating the usual emotions people have in these circumstances - that is, to seek further fame and cement themselves in the minds of the common populace. If the drive for the spotlight is there, individuals will stoop to participate in situations that they'd normally avoid - in this case, children's telly."

"While this would be less objectionable if the programme were actually held to a decent educational standard and if I were the sort of person who didn't mind prattling complete drivel with children in order to bolster my sense of self-worth, neither of these are true. It will undoubtedly be full of tedious musical numbers, attempts at lessons that destroy brain cells rather than improving them, and stipulations to act unduly cheerful and lie continuously to a camera because sensitive parents would rather not know they're encouraging their offspring to watch the Sociopath's Daily Criminal Digest."

John let out a long breath of air. 

"Oookay then…." He paused, wetted his lips, and collected his next argument. "But Sherlock, I seriously doubt that they will expect you to perform on the show. That is, after they've met you in person." John winced at the thought. "It'll probably be one of those license-to-use our names and ideas, sorts of things. They'd probably pay us just for that. And, well, who's to say it would be all that bad in the end? Maybe you could give them suggestions…?"

"So you're saying we should go submit to social niceties for the sake of business, then accept money so they can make an idiotic, slapstick mockery of us on the telly for the delight of brain dead youth and the marketing companies that target them? Yes, that will certainly advance our reputation," Sherlock muttered. "Away from the days of Pet Rescue. Onwards to the days of performing at birthday parties. _No_ , John," he added, uncertain whether his sarcasm was perfectly clear to the other man. With John, sometimes it paid to be blunt.

John's brows knit together and his jaw set firmly. He glared up at Sherlock.

For a long moment they were locked in a contest of gazes, and then, without moving another muscle, John's fingers began typing. So accustomed was he to the flow of writing that he did not need to break their stare until he reached the very end of his message. Once finished, he glanced over it quickly….

_Dear Mr. Brook,_

_I would be delighted to meet with you and further discuss your offer. Please let me know when you are available and we can schedule something.  
Sincerely,_

_John Watson"_

…and then clicked ‘send’.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his ennui slipping into irritation. However much John tried to keep his expression from giving things away, he was often an easy read.

"John, I believe social norms dictate that when someone voices objections to another person involving them in an endeavor they don't care for, the sentiment is respected."

"Yes, this is true," John conceded, but without missing a beat continued, "but, if you hadn't noticed, the message was directed to me, regarding my blog, and not to you." He closed the laptop. "I, for one, think this could be something worth looking into. Maybe even a bit of fun."

Sherlock set his mug down on the table, his expression vaguely sour. "If you think business meetings are fun, John," he said as he picked up his violin, "you clearly haven't experienced enough of them to know better."

Tucking the violin into place, Sherlock decided to express his displeasure with strings instead of voice, letting the jarring sounds of Bartok's "Melodia" Sonata resonate through the flat and assault the ears of John and anyone else close enough to hear it.

"Oh for crying out loud." John rose from the chair with a roll of his eyes, not intending to put up with the shrill noise. "I should get a trombone to accompany you whenever you're in a mood." As the sound of the music rose in pitch, so did John's voice. "Wah-wah-waaahhhhhh," he mimicked the clichéd sound of a lone, sad trombone, playing on nothing but air. 

Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye as he let the real composition flow into impromptu phrases of his own, enjoying the way the truly shrill notes seemed to raise John's hackles - the way he'd take a sharp breath through his teeth and focus his gaze on him, the subtle twitches in his hands.

Sherlock liked pushing people after he figured out what made them tick. The impulse hadn't won him many friends, but he hadn't been much preoccupied with that fact for many years. Even so, he found himself being a bit more careful around John, always watching for his companion's border line to ensure he didn't cross it.

John, to his credit, put up with it as long as he could. He went to the kitchen to fiddle with some things…rearrange the pots, maybe clean something, but in the end there was nothing for it.

"Alright, that's it. I'm going out!" He threw up his hands and reached for his jacket. He was aware that it was still well before noon, but he would find something to do. He knew Sherlock was running out of hair cream and decent towels, and he would probably end up getting some . He stopped. The thought that he was _leaving_ to get away from Sherlock's petulance only to pick up toiletries _for Sherlock_ was suddenly aggravating. "And when I come back, I'll still be planning to meet this Mr. Brook, and that's that." He pulled on his jacket, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door. 

Sherlock continued playing until John was out of view, watching him beat an angry retreat down the sidewalk outside. Lowering the bow once he could no longer see his acquired shadow, he sighed.

As much as human interactions and emotions were easily graspable from a distance, Sherlock had always found it difficult to negotiate those currents. Manipulating or driving people away was accomplished easily enough. Everything else was a tangle where anything he said or did struck others as cold, freakish, or downright insulting.

That wasn't much of a problem with most people he encountered; they were locked outside, becoming almost more intangible than ideas, and they couldn't touch him at all. John was closer somehow, and in a very different way than Mycroft. He didn't know what it meant, but the fact that he was close enough to have an effect was vaguely disturbing.

Sherlock stared at the steady flow of traffic outside the window for a long moment, his gaze finally sliding sideways to settle upon John's laptop. He couldn't recall when it was that he'd started bending, started accommodating the other man in small ways, sometimes without thinking. He'd never made these sorts of adjustments for anyone else that wandered near the edges of his life.

Sherlock pondered, then set his violin down and moved to the kitchen. He paused for a moment before grabbing the dustbin.

Sherlock Holmes didn't apologize, but perhaps an experiment cut short would mollify John. Just a bit.

Sherlock actually took the rubbish out for once, determining that John's main point of contention with the eyes had been the smell. It would hardly do any good to simply move the odor from the fridge to the bin, he reasoned, so he had tied up the plastic bag and made his way down the stairs, dumping his burden into the holding bin out back.

-

John felt slightly more comfortable when he was heading away from Baker Street.

Sherlock could set him off like no one else in the world. No one could hold a candle to the time it took for Sherlock to take him from a state of serenity and send him into one of utter aggravation. John supposed that was just one of his flatmate's many talents. 

On the other hand, frustrating as Sherlock was, their arguments always tended to be on the petty side. John could handle them that way. It was probably healthy for him, even. Just so long as he didn't allow himself to become too focused on Sherlock, too engrossed in the man himself, which was hard to avoid. Sherlock was intense. And, sometimes, when John found himself with his head full of Sherlock and only Sherlock, he had to force himself to stop or he wouldn’t have a life of his own. 

Like now.

He took deep breaths and cast his eyes to the world around him, letting lungfuls of the nippy London air fill him. It was good to be out in the busy world. It was good to remind himself that other people existed besides Sherlock. 

Eventually, he spotted Tesco.

John ate his lunch in the park a while later, deciding he didn't mind the chill so much as long as he could be amidst the hustle and bustle of the sidewalk shoppers. Picking up necessities at the shop, even though John had already been there once this morning, wasn't so bad. The clerks were getting to know him. He wasn't sure if the fact that he was also getting to know them, and on a first name basis, complete with odd details about their lives and families, was nice or just a bit off-putting.

He was aware that he was avoiding Sherlock, and he was okay with that. Usually when he avoided Sherlock, Sherlock let him without comment until something of interest came up. Then, Sherlock seemed to forget that he was being avoided, and dragged John along with him wherever he went.

By the time John finished his meal, he was still determined to see this meeting with Mr. Brook through, but he felt well enough to face Sherlock again. He tossed his things in the dustbin, picked up his two new Tesco bags, and made his way back to Baker Street.

 

Upon re-entering the flat after dumping the rubbish, Sherlock felt moderately better. After turning the bowl that had contained the eyeballs upside-down in the sink, "do not use", John would certainly take care of it later, he returned to the window. Basking in the weak sunlight that barely managed to pierce the cloud cover, Sherlock picked up his violin again and began to play - nothing formally composed, just emotions and thoughts translated into waves of sound.

It could be heard all the way down the quiet street if one was keeping an ear out. 

As John approached, he noticed a marked difference in the music when he had left to that of the music when he returned. He paused outside the window of their apartment. For a moment, unexpectedly, the chords of the violin took him away. He stood there, fixed to the spot, shopping in hand, and closed his eyes. In a word, the tune was melancholic, but it was the kind of music that transported a listener somewhere else. For John, he could have imagined himself walking along the rocky shore of the sea as he had done once as a child. That moment had left an impression in his memory. 

It begged him to wonder what kind of places Sherlock went to when producing music like this.

At last, he knew that he could only stand motionless on the street like that for so long. Reluctantly, John entered the flat, hoping that his arrival would not interrupt Sherlock from his reverie.

Sherlock was in one of those trances John had observed only very rarely. Half of the time it was to go to his "mind palace", as he'd termed it, wandering the corridors of his psyche looking for memories. During other half he'd sink into music, riding through emotions he wasn't able to articulate in his normal, waking life.

It might be possible for a true sociopath to perform music like this, but it was highly doubtful.

John could have sworn Sherlock hadn't moved from where he'd left him that morning. He went about quietly putting away the things he'd bought. It seemed to him that Sherlock was in a mental state that should be respected and left undisturbed. John was, after all, the one who had pushed him over the edge of boredom into…well, into a mood that could produce breathtaking music. 

It was funny how Sherlock could be so expressive of feelings such as annoyance, boredom, even glee if he were faced with a particularly fascinating puzzle, but anything deeper and John suspected that he was out of his depth.

When John was finished, he returned to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Sherlock probably hadn't eaten today if John's suspicions about his reluctance to put down his violin were true. He was about to remedy the situation when he opened the refrigerator and noticed something odd. He opened his mouth and turned, about to comment on his findings when he noticed something odder still.

"Sherlock? Did you…….take out the rubbish?"

A voice. Someone was speaking. The presence that had entered the flat a few moments ago, which his subconscious had filed away as.... ah, John. Sherlock finished the last phrase and let the bow leave the strings. "Hmmm?"

Sherlock turned slightly. He'd gotten caught up to the point that he'd missed exactly what John had asked him. A quick glance told him what he needed. "Oh. Yes, they're gone."

"Wha?" John stood there with the refrigerator door hanging open, staring at Sherlock. He closed it when he realized he must have looked like an idiot. "You threw out the smelly eyeballs? …along with the rest of the rubbish?" Obviously. John probably didn't seem like he was faring well in the intelligence department right now, but he was mildly shocked.

It wasn't the first time Sherlock had _ever_ disposed of rubbish before. However, with the disagreement this morning in mind, it would seem as though he had done it for John's sake.

"They're out back, if you find that yours are failing you, but I think they're in worse condition than the ones you have," Sherlock replied, deadpan but for the smallest curve upwards on one side of his mouth. Teasing, not taunting.

Suitably amused by John's startled expression, Sherlock turned his attention back to his violin and prepared it to be put away.

"Um…. No thanks." John gave a little laugh and tried to relax a bit. He wondered if Sherlock really had just both complimented his eyes and also suggested that they could be replaced in rather morbid fashion. He plopped himself down in the armchair, deciding it was best not thought about. "Anything on the telly?"

"I'm certain that there are several things on the telly, but I have severe doubts that any of them are worth paying attention to." With everything cared for properly, Sherlock shut the case and dropped back onto the sofa. The next few moments were spent scrutinizing his colleague, following the visual clues to see exactly what he'd done while he was gone. It was much as he'd expected; John tended to slip into routines if given the chance.

John's fingers hesitated over the remote. At this point, he wasn't sure if he wanted to turn it on if it could possibly aggravate Sherlock. He was keenly aware that he had forced them into an argument, that they had both made gestures of restoring the peace, and he had to continue on that path.

He cast about for a safe subject. "So. ….don't suppose you've had any potential clients while I was out?"

"No, no new texts I'm afraid." Every once in a while there was a complete dearth of suitably intriguing material to work with. Unfortunately, as Lestrade had put it when he'd voiced his laments, there can’t be a murder every day. The population would move elsewhere if there were. "Something will turn up eventually." Soon. Hopefully.

"Hmm, alright then. Talk shows it is." John turned on the telly and settled in. He could use a good laugh, and Sherlock in the background of talk show television never failed to be a winning combination. The programme was half finished already. Looked like a segment on concerned parents, judging from the tearful woman being interviewed. Luckily, Britain's Got Talent was scheduled next.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John truly had awful taste in certain areas, and telly was unmistakably one of those.

Between the boredom, the nonsense playing on the screen, and John's inevitable insistence on him attending the meeting with Richard Brook, it was shaping up to be a long night indeed.

John smiled up at him from the chair, trying to keep the peace, and then went back to watching. "Let me know when the kettle’s boiled, would you?" 

Sherlock probably wouldn't, but sometimes John said things like that just to have normal communication. And something as mundane as tea would give Sherlock an excuse to sit down next to John later. If he wanted to.

Sherlock didn't reply, but he didn't need to. They'd begun to learn each other's quirks after spending so much time around each other, and John was now able to pick up some of nonverbal cues that encompassed Sherlock's way of communicating. A flicker of a glance was proof that the dark haired man had heard him.

John needed no prompting in the end; he rose and went to the kitchen as soon as the whistle sounded. Sherlock shadowed along behind him, waiting patiently to be handed his mug.

Neither commented when they sat back down together, enjoying each other's company from opposite ends of the sofa.

\--

The next day, John went about his daily routine. There was still no word of a case from Sherlock, and the hospital had been unusually well staffed and hadn't called. 

In spite of all this, John felt much better. He was pleasantly surprised when the weather turned out warmer than the day prior. He enjoyed the rays of the sun shining down on him, reflecting his mood, as he walked down the streets that morning.

Sherlock had accepted the unspoken apologies that had passed between them the previous night. The flat had been quiet since then, no audible evidence of boredom piercing the calm and disturbing the sleep of the building's inhabitants.

The detective had already been busy in his half of the kitchen when John woke, safety goggles down for once as he tampered with something caustic. He'd accepted the mug of tea John had offered him before his colleague had gone out the door, but it was doubtful he'd remembered to eat anything. Neglect of his body's needs in favor of indulging his current fascination was a bad habit that was entrenched from years of repetition, and it would take more than polite reminders from his flatmate to break the pattern.

John had let him go on for most of the day like this, but now he was glancing at his watch and subtly looking out the window toward the sun hanging low in the sky. He closed his laptop and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, preparing himself for a battle of wills if it came to that. 

After he’d replied to the actor from the small CBBC station, the man had been enthusiastic to schedule their meeting for that very evening, after business hours. He'd cordially invited them out to dinner, even finding a restaurant just shy of walking distance from Baker Street. Sherlock's warnings hadn't been forgotten, and it was more than likely that nothing would come of it, but John had to say that he was curious over the possibility of a children's programme dedicated to their work. The idea must have been pulling on the softer side of him.

Only an hour remained until the meeting, and he had yet to find a way to bring it up to Sherlock.

Perhaps the simplest was the best.

"So," he began, loudly enough for his evasive flatmate to hear, "Will you be coming to dinner tonight? Richard has invited us out."

"I suppose I must, or you'll be tempted to sign me up for more engagements in my absence," Sherlock replied, taking a set of tongs and quickly rushing a flask to the sink, where it promptly began to overflow. Leaving the concoction in the basin, he stripped off the goggles and tossed them carelessly onto the countertop.

" _If_ ," he began quickly, having seen John open his mouth to comment. "If I am to come with you tonight, there will be some ground rules."

John's eyebrows rose. He sat still in the chair, on the edge of both relief and uncertainty. Sherlock, dressed in his usual experimenting attire, looked like a cross between a mad scientist and a man who'd just rolled out of bed. The curls on his head were sticking up in an unruly fashion since he'd removed the goggles, and John found the curious sight somewhat distracting.

John blinked, unmoving. "Such as?"

Sherlock stalked closer. It was difficult to spot the signs if you didn't know him well, as he didn't display emotions in a normal manner, but small clues were there - a tightness in his features, slight hesitation in normally fluid movement. John didn't have as much practice in reading people, but he'd seen this before. Sherlock was irritated at being in this situation, and the man's peculiar social anxiety was rearing its head.

"First, I am not required to be polite and charming. If he wanted to meet us, he gets his wish. I am under no obligation to make him approve of me. Second, you will not agree to anything that includes me by extension, either directly or indirectly, without discussing it with me first and securing my agreement." Sherlock fixed John with his gaze, exhaled sharply. "Third... if this is as boring and unpleasant as I am expecting, you will have to make amends somehow. We will discuss adequate compensation afterwards."

John could feel the tendrils of a blush rise to his cheeks and wished to God and Heaven that it would go away. Because really? Blushing at Sherlock's probably unintentionally leading words "adequate compensation" was not an appropriate response to his demands. 

He wetted his dry lips and tried to ignore the discomfort Sherlock was rousing in him. "Alright…. Understandable," he conceded. "But, you've got to promise not to be unreasonable just because you don't like it. That sound fair enough?" 

Sherlock was distracted by John's unusual reaction; not only did he not make a fuss about the implication that he was going to treat Mr. Brook very poorly, his skin had flushed and his pulse had appeared to quicken. Anticipated embarrassment? No, John wasn't afraid of a fight; he wouldn't have backed down if he thought he was going to endure a mortifying social situation.

....oh. Dilated pupils.

"Fair enough," Sherlock concurred, at a loss for once. What was the appropriate response for these sorts of situations? Sherlock barely understood exactly what category John fit into, aside from the obvious: flatmate, colleague, friend. If John was feeling more than admiration and companionable affection, what then? Sherlock certainly didn't want to do or say the wrong thing and drive away the only person in his life who seemed to like him for himself, despite all odds.

This was not his area of expertise.

"...well. I suppose I'll clean up," he added awkwardly, beating a hasty retreat to the bathroom before he was asked questions he couldn't answer.

John, still rooted to his chair, felt his color flush at Sherlock's turned back. He released a breath that he'd probably been holding ever since he'd spoken, and composed himself. He'd let that confrontation get far more awkward than it needed to be, and he suspected that Sherlock had noticed. Sherlock noticing, in and of itself, made it even more awkward for John.

He and Sherlock weren't like that. Not really. He doubted that Sherlock could be "like that" with _anyone_. Of all times to contemplate the unusual arrangement they shared, this really wasn't the best. John mentally kicked himself and rolled his eyes. They had a dinner to go to, and, all social tension aside, he was a bit nervous as to what Sherlock's ideas could be on "making amends" for a night that he surely would not approve of.

As much as Sherlock purported not to care what others thought about him, he was a vain man. He derived a large portion of his self-esteem from the awed reactions of the people around him; it had been this very quality, among others, that had caused him to instantly take to John Watson, who indulged his need for an audience full of praise and wonder. Regardless of the fact that he had no intention of accepting the proposal for a television programme, his pride dictated that he show up dressed to impress.

Stripping down and stepping into the shower stall, Sherlock found himself mulling over his situation with John far more than the impending dinner meeting.

John, on the other hand, wandered up to his room and began tossing one pair of trousers, then shirts, after another, mulling over what he could put together to look at least moderately presentable for a business-dining occasion. He hadn't much experience in the area at all. Yes, he'd been in the press multiple times since Sherlock's work had started getting noticed, and yes, he was no stranger to taking a new girlfriend out for an evening supper, but he was a naturally casual sort. Girls liked that. The press didn't seem to mind. They mostly focused on Sherlock anyway. All of Mr. Brook's letters had been directed to him, however, and John felt that he might have somehow gotten himself an image that he now had to live up to.

What did professional writers wear to dinner? For that matter, what did professional _bloggers_ wear?

After Sherlock had successfully scoured away any residue from the day's experiments, he wrapped a towel around his waist and ducked into his room. The autumn chill hadn't been too terrible lately, still too early for the true bitter cold of winter, so he had some options to choose from.

If he was going to make an impression, he might as well do it all the way. The human psyche responded predictably to colors - dark ones giving an impression of authority and power, with a touch of being unapproachable. Aubergine offset the rigid formality of blacks and greys, suiting him well and making him appear slightly more calm and friendly. A balance between imposing and open had the possibility of subtly throwing people off balance, uncertain what approach to make.

Pulling on a dark jacket over the deep purple dress shirt, Sherlock went back into the den to wait for John.

When John finally appeared, it was in a pair of dark trousers and probably the only collared shirt he owned. It was a leafy green and on the large side. He stood straighter for a moment, taking in Sherlock's change in dress. 

Sherlock was usually very well put-together if he hadn't been lazing about the flat all day, so it wasn't anything John hadn't seen before. Still, the taller man struck quite an image with his dark hair and figure, eyes bright and skin smooth and creamy from the shower.

"Right. All set then?" John said quickly, pulling on his usual jacket and not doing his best not to care. 

Sherlock shrugged into his coat and looped his scarf around his neck before giving John an approving nod. Perhaps the other man was starting to apply what he observed - he'd also gone for darker colors, and the shirt complimented his hair and eyes. If they stood together, John would certainly be determined to be the more approachable of the two of them.

"As ready as I can be. Where have you booked us, then?"

"I haven't booked us anywhere, actually. Richard said it was his treat." Whether John would let the actor pay for his meal remained to be seen, however. He wasn't entirely sure what proper form called for in this situation. "Anyway, it's not too far down the street. Zizzi, it's called. He said there would even be live music later tonight." John was smiling now. He'd passed the place once or twice. He'd even thought about taking Jeanette, one of his former girlfriends, once. Sherlock had dismissed her as boring, but it looked like her type of place: young, artsy, fun. Unfortunately, their relationship hadn't ended well. "Ah, if we're interested that is.”

Sherlock looked dubious at the mention of live music, but he let it pass without comment, for once. He didn't mind letting another person pay for an evening that was certain to tax his patience, so long as it was understood that such generosity would have no bearing on his decision. "Well, it'll spare us the cab fare, then."

John looked a little relieved at that.

They headed down the street in silence but for other pedestrians passing. The sun was nearing the horizon, and soon the night crowd would emerge on this end of the street. John guessed they had several hours before it became busy. 

Zizzi was a small restaurant, situated under a long black awning with a few couple's chairs outside. It looked simple from the outside, with its name printed in small, clear letters on the awning's edge, and a small group of patrons gathered inside.

John led the way to the door. 

It was odd for Sherlock, trailing behind the shorter man for once instead of dragging him along in a whirlwind of excitement and danger. The detective was used to leading, not following.

Quirking an eyebrow at John as the other man opened the door for him, Sherlock ducked inside and quickly took in their surroundings. No surprise, the restaurant looked like it catered to the young, artistic, and moderately eccentric crowd. Odd doodles sprawled across the walls in tangles of bold lines and bright colors, setting off the stark tones and crisp silhouettes of the "modern" furniture.

It reminded Sherlock of those offbeat youths he occasionally spotted in the street - the ones with the decrepit bicycles and ragged, dumpy clothing. He informed John as much.

"I don't know, I think it has a certain…charm to it?" Secretly, John knew the crowd Sherlock was referring to. He looked around, scanning the patrons, relieved that they were on time.

There, in one of the tables near the back, someone had spotted them and was rising to his feet. He was a small man, casually dressed in jeans, a t-shirt with a light vest, dark hair, and large, expressive eyes that met John's immediately. 

Richard Brook.

He waved them over, grinning like they were idols from the telly already and he was a fan. Even John could tell that he was an actor from the uninhibited expression in his movement.

Sherlock's attention was instantly drawn by said movement. The detective quickly scanned over the man they were striding towards, taking in the small details - impeccably groomed, overly so. Casual dress, but quality. Pride in his appearance, exaggerated expressions and gestures, that particular stance, nails trimmed and filed to avoid catching on things...

Gay, he concluded silently after reviewing an extensive list of visual clues. He knew better than to say it aloud; John had bruised his arm the last time he'd unwittingly ‘outed’ someone in public to their peer group. Really, the man had done such a poor job of obfuscation that he'd assumed everyone had already known.

"At last," Brook exclaimed, his smile stretching across his face. "John Watson!" He took John's hand in both of his, giving him a firm handshake. He lingered for the briefest of moments, clearly enjoying the moment, and then turned to Sherlock. "And you must be Sherlock Holmes. Please, please, sit. Order whatever you'd like, it's on me. The calzones are delicious." He gestured to the two chairs across his own eagerly.

John found the excitement contagious and took the seat closest to the wall.

Sherlock was somewhat relieved that he wasn't expected to let the man wrench his arm in an overly vigorous handshake. "Richard Brook, I presume?" he asked with as much politeness as he could muster, even though he knew full well that he had to be the very same.

Taking the seat beside John, Sherlock ignored their surroundings and fixed his full attention on the man across from them. He knew from personal experience that it had a tendency to unnerve people, and nervous people often betrayed clues to ulterior motives. Not that he suspected that this was anything other than an attempt to steal a bit of celebrity stardom to further a personal career, but one never knew.

Brook's unwavering grin and bright eyes turned to Sherlock. "Please, call me Rich."

John made a pleased hum at Sherlock's side, glad things were starting out okay.

The actor folded his hands together in his lap under the table as he held Sherlock's gaze, the action making him look like an over excited child. "Really though, I want to thank you for coming with John to meet me." His smile widened a fraction. "Especially on such short notice. I imagine you must be very busy with your work."

"Quite," Sherlock replied promptly, making barely any effort at all to disguise his displeasure with the situation. He was here as a favor for John, to assuage their friendship, and that was the extent of it. "I must say, when you regularly work on murder cases, it's surprising to receive a proposition for a children's programme instead of an invitation to lecture at a forensics school. How did you manage to pitch it to your network?"

Blunt. To the point. Watch the reactions, what he doesn't say. Ignore kicked shin, chide John later.

Sherlock's blogger was sitting as still as possible in his chair. What had been a genuine look of enjoyment turned suddenly to one made of plastic.

To John's surprise, however, Rich gave a clap of his hands and leaned back in his chair, taking Sherlock's jab with obvious pleasure. "Exactly! But that's the brilliant part isn't it?" He didn't seem at all disturbed that he hadn't won Sherlock over with his pitch prior to now. "Everyone's seen Blues Clues, and to be honest, we're all bored of it. Even the five year olds it was meant for can see right through it." Here he leaned forward again, elbows rested on the table to allow his hands to gesticulate his words. "But you, the _method_ in which you solve the cases you take, _that_ is the sensation. The true art of problem-solving. _That_ should be taught." With a wave of his hand, he relaxed. "Of course it doesn't have to involve murder. The cases themselves aren't the interesting bit."

Sherlock took in all the subtle changes in Rich's expressions and hand movements, the enthusiasm coupled with the odd, rigid stillness.

Something was off about the man. He didn't seem the least bit phased about the dark content of most of his cases, even going so far as to dismiss the cases entirely. He'd countered the offhand insult, the discarding of the crimes as uninteresting when Sherlock had taken them on out of interest, with a bit of personal flattery. Rich didn't want the stories, he wanted Sherlock himself. His talents, his manner of thinking.

Knowing that the overt flattery was a ploy should have negated the tactic, but it only dampened the effect slightly. "What makes you so certain my method is truly novel? Why involve me when people should be perfectly capable of both observation and deduction?"

John was looking between the two men back and forth. Some undercurrent to their conversation had changed almost imperceptibly, and John couldn't grasp what it was. He could tell that Sherlock was suddenly not pretending to be interested anymore. Richard had his full attention.

"Why? Because it's never taught." Rich remained relaxed outwardly. "Not in school, and certainly not at home. The scientific method is the closest thing our education system has come up with, and actively teaches, that can compare to the methods of deduction detailed in Dr. Watson's blog. Now, I won't pretend to be an expert at understanding your methods myself," he gave a shrug, sheepish for a moment, "but I do know how it compares to the methods of critical thinking that are employed in the schools our programmes reach. Simply put, they don't compare at all."

_Clever._ A subtle tension in the man's frame. There was something more to Richard Brook than what was readily apparent, but _what_?

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of him and smiled ever so slightly as he watched Rich. "True, but what makes you convinced that you'll be able to sell it to a network? Get them to air it? You know very well that telly isn't in the educational business. Anything too heavy, anything that might endanger their viewership numbers or the money from the toy and sweets sponsors, and they'll refuse to greenlight it. Or they'll force you to water it down until it's no longer recognizable."

"Of course, balance is key here. What you have laid down in the science of deduction is not the only point in which your situation is special." Now, Richard glanced up to John. "You also have a story of character." He didn't move, but the enthusiasm radiating from him took on a unique softness. "You aren't alone in the world, Mr. Holmes. You've created a team. With yourself solving mysteries and Dr. Watson at your side, in character, in a story, that is a golden dynamic." He took a sip of water. "That's the network pitch. But I'll level with you, we have a small studio. We've been picked up by a big network once, so we've got a growing name for ourselves, but television isn't the only medium anymore. If we try a few episodes, and if they shoot us down, then we'll run them online, sell them to school districts themselves. In no time, the networks would be back on our heels."

A waitress arrived at their table. She had been hovering around them for some time, but was clearly hesitant to interrupt their fast-paced conversation. John was the only one who glanced up at her brightly. He ordered, as advised, a round of calzones.

Sherlock spared a quick glance in John's direction before turning his gaze back on Richard, an unexpected feeling of protectiveness flaring in him. He knew John was perfectly capable of taking care of himself in most situations; there was no reason to be concerned.

Still, he didn't like the way Rich had looked at John. 

"You still haven't mentioned, what exactly is the format of the programme you'll be pitching? I can't imagine you’re attempting to recruit John and I to actually appear on your show."

"Oh no, of course not!" Rich laughed and held up his hands, "I wouldn't presume to try to steer you away from your real work, or take up that much of your time. We'd have a cast, live actors, children, playing yourself and Dr. Watson." He nodded to John with a quick, shy smile. "With your help and permission we can use quite a few of the cases outlined in your blog, changing the details as needed, as a starting point for each case in the show."

John, understanding that he was now being addressed in the answer to Sherlock's question, gave a nod of appreciation. Much as he wanted to jump in as Sherlock's interrogation eased off, he did remember that he'd promised Sherlock not to be too quick to go along with Rich's offers. Still…. "Well, doesn't sound like you'll have to do much work after all, does it Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed briefly in suspicion before his expression smoothed over. There was something underneath all of this, but he didn't have enough data to pinpoint it. Whatever Rich's angle was, he was doing a bang-up job of hiding the specifics, if not the fact that the undercurrent was there.

"Not much work, no. But there's still the concern about reputation. Public image, you understand," he explained amiably, slipping abruptly into the friendlier persona he occasionally used to manipulate others into giving him access to restricted locations. He hoped John didn't ruin the effect by staring. "If you're going to be paying to license our names and likenesses, we'll want to see examples of your work before we give you approval."

John did, in fact, stare. Just a little bit. Mostly at the mention of Sherlock's concern for his "reputation".

Rich nodded readily. "Absolutely." He took out a single jewel case and disk, unmarked, and passed it across the table. "Never come to an audition without a portfolio," he laughed modestly at John's look of surprise. "The programme my studio is most known for is the B. Street Irregulars, B. for Beat Street." He did look quite fond of detailing his prior work. "The plot features a group of musically inclined children hoping to one day make it big on Broadway. But in the meantime, they perfect their craft on Beat Street, learning and teaching the foundation of music. This is the programme the CBBC picked up. I'll admit it has more than its share of musical numbers, but I'd say it's the closest to the format we have in mind for the story of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson." His grin turned decidedly goofy before he added, "I play their storyteller."

Sherlock accepted the case, turning it over using the tips of his fingers before tucking into his coat pocket. He smiled politely back at Rich, playing along with the charade for the moment. Perhaps John was lulled by his demeanor, but everything struck Sherlock as distinctly false, a veneer full of minute fractures.

"We'll certainly review your work and get back to you. If both of us are impressed, we'll take negotiations from there." Leaning forward slightly in his chair, the detective assumed an air of mild interest. "I'm curious. Why us? Surely we're not all that famous, but somehow we caught your eye. You seem to have the advantage, having the opportunity to do a little research. What are your interests, your acting career aside?"

Rich looked surprised to be asked. Now that the attention was on him instead of his work, he seemed somewhat self-conscious. "Well, I'd always wanted to be an actor, even growing up." The shyness John had caught once or twice from him during the conversation surfaced again. "But, I was a teacher for a few years before this. I don't know if I was a very good one," he laughed, "but sometimes, I guess…it's hard to tell if you've ever done any good as a teacher."

Rich sat still for a moment, as though he had just heard the truth in his own words and they had calmed him. It was then that John decided he quite liked this Richard Brook. His exuberance was refreshing, and he seemed honest without being blunt. In a word, he was nothing at all like Sherlock.

"I suppose that's what clicked for me after hearing about you, then after reading Dr. Watson's blog. Your work could reach so many people...," he went on. "You are definitely a unique case."

This man knew how to play. Well, so could Sherlock. He carefully kept himself from responding to the flattery; he wanted to keep the focus on Brook and see if any flaws would catch in the light.

"Yes, unique is one word for it." It was a little too close to the normal insults tossed his way: freak, lunatic, monster. Sherlock far preferred John's outbursts of praise. He also had to admit, if only to himself, that it smarted that his own blog was passed over so frequently for John's. "I suppose your interest makes sense, with a background in education. Out of curiosity, where did you teach?"

"Oh, America, actually," Rich waved a hand absently. "I had a multiple subject credential. It really was much easier to get started that way than try for one subject and expand later…." he trailed off as the waitress arrived with steaming hot calzones for the three of them.

"Thank you," Rich said, nearly in unison with John, who had out of habit expected to be the only one to show polite manners in the group.

That got John laughing immediately. Finally, he decided to break into the conversation, unknowingly interrupting Sherlock’s interrogation. "So you've traveled then? I can barely get Sherlock to step foot outside of Baker Street if it isn't for a case. But I've always wanted to travel abroad."

That got Richard matching John's laughter in return. "Well, what do you do for fun, then?" he asked, cutting two of the calzones in half so that John could have one of stromboli ones as well, and just like that, what had begun as an inquiry on John's part turned back around on him.

"I'm hardly _that_ much of a shut-in, John," Sherlock protested, taking a fork and knife to his own calzone. "The circus wasn't all that long ago. And the museum. And the moors. We also have dined out frequently."

Point in fact, he actually had been getting out _more_ since John had entered his life, cases aside.

"You can't count those, they were all cases!" John said around a mouthful of mozzarella, which was clearly burning his tongue judging by the pitch of his voice. "Or at least they turned out to be."

Rich perked up. "You find cases _accidentally_?" he asked in wonder.

"It's never cases when we go for Chinese," Sherlock pointed out. "And no, it's never by accident. Opportunities for gathering data simply coincide with pleasant locations at times."

This was not going the way Sherlock had planned. He was revealing more information than he was receiving, and still he felt... pressured, somehow, to maintain a positive impression with John. The impulse made no sense, considering he was currently between girlfriends and thus could not be distracted or tempted into leaving.

John nodded thoughtfully, conceding the point and moving on. "Hey, looks like they're getting set up for a show," he said, reaching for the sauce.

"Oh yes!" Richard exclaimed, looking like he'd nearly forgotten. "Stay for the set! You mentioned you liked jazz on your blog, didn't you? It was…something about…."

"My sister!" John was surprised Rich had noticed and remembered that anecdote. "She used to, well, try to play the sax. Listened to jazz all the time to get in the mood. I liked the jazz. Never could stomach her playing," he added with a grin.

Sherlock glanced over at John, an unusual emotion flickering in his eyes before it was quickly hidden.

Sherlock was not pleased with how this was going. It was becoming increasingly complicated to steer Rich into revealing more about himself, and the rapport he and John were developing was... something. Discomforting. Irritating. Unwelcome. While he didn't feel that John and he were in physical danger, the situation was conjuring a sense of threat.

"You never mentioned jazz before, John," Sherlock murmured quietly. Not to him, not directly.

"Hm?" John asked, watching as the drummer did a few warm up rolls and two other performers plugged in cords and a microphone. "That I like jazz? Oh...I don't know, I wrote it in the blog," he amended as if that counted.

Rich watched with just as much interest, having to turn in his seat to see the stage area. He sipped his water contentedly as the group finished. With a final roll of the drums for attention and a quick introduction, they began a slow rhythm. The house lights dimmed, and the singer, a plain looking woman but for her shining red lipstick and deep, smooth voice, slipped into the melody. The corners of Rich's lips tugged up into a small smile when he glanced back at John and Sherlock, John's attention rapt to the stage.

The small movement drew Sherlock's notice. Turning his gaze away from the back of John's head to their host, Sherlock gave him the flat, frightening smile that he normally reserved for Donovan.

For as much of a fool as Sally Donovan was, she was partially right on one count: his behavior couldn't be assumed to always fall within the acceptable social boundaries determined by the standard level of interpersonal empathy. The factor of unpredictability that that fact lent him had kept her and a few other distasteful acquaintances at bay, their fear enforcing a comfortable distance between them.

He wouldn't hurt Brook. Things like that often brought more trouble than it was worth, along with a lecture from Mycroft about the trials of family ties. There were other ways to dissuade people from wanting to be a presence in his life, and in John's life by extension. Mycroft wasn't the only one with strings he could pull.

Rich's eyes met Sherlock’s, but the soft smile he'd had for John didn't falter. Instead, it seemed to transfer onto Sherlock and become meant for him only. For the briefest of moments, the music, the spice of the kitchen, and the bustle of the restaurant faded into the background, and there only existed the two of them. Then it slid off his face, and Rich looked appropriately cowed by Sherlock's false intensity. The actor took a pull of his water to cover for his disturbed appearance and turned back to the show.

It was enough to catch John's attention, who looked from Sherlock's fake smile to Richard's newly uncomfortable posture. John frowned.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, confident that the message had been received, even with the unusual reaction that it had provoked with Rich. If that was even his real name.

And a new piece of the puzzle had been revealed; whatever the man's game was, John wasn't the focus. It had better stay that way; Sherlock didn't tolerate threats against what was his.

They sat through the rest of the show in silence after that, attention on the performers. In spite of everything, Sherlock's prickliness most of all, John felt that it could be called a comfortable silence. They clapped with the small crowd at the end of every song and the banter from the singer and her instrumentalists. Between himself and Rich, their group was probably the most enthusiastic.

Sherlock was glad at least one of them was enjoying the experience. It was becoming increasingly unlikely that Rich would reveal anything else about himself during this meeting, and even with the challenge literally sitting right in front of him, defying his observational prowess, the detective found that he was bored out of his mind. Lacking any avenues to sink his energy into, all he was left with was the opportunity to mentally criticize every mistake the band made and to deduce the backgrounds of the mediocre minds surrounding them.

Or watch John while he wasn't paying attention. Normally, he would have jumped at the opportunity, but not now. Not with an observant opponent. 

When the night drew to a close and the band wrapped up their final number, the crowd began to thin. Mostly young couples and college students made up their lot. Three sat in the opposite corner engrossed in their laptops. It was a weekday and plenty of people were making noises about having to be back at the daily grind in the morning. 

John guessed that in spite of the relaxed and social atmosphere, or maybe because of it, the venue was not an unusual place for professional get-togethers.

Rich had turned his chair to lean back against the wall so that he didn't have to turn completely around, and he stretched casually, loosening his shoulders.

"Well Rich," John began, "whatever we decide, I want to thank you for a splendid evening."

"Quite." The clipped agreement was the best Sherlock could muster with his current mood, and more restrained than he felt like being. "We'll review the audition disc and get back to you in a few days."

A few days should give him enough time. Time to formulate a plan, analyze the content of the video for clues about Rich Brook. Sherlock wasn't one to back down from a challenge, but he wanted to have a good idea of what he was about to get involved in.

That said, Sherlock stood and pulled on his coat, watching Rich while he looped his scarf around his neck.

Rich nodded, standing with them as John followed Sherlock's lead and pushed back his chair. "Thank you. Thank you very much for coming out." He spoke nervously at first, but found his words after meeting John's gaze. "It was my pleasure. And, if you ever just feel like grabbing a bit to eat, work aside, Wednesdays are typically jazz nights."

"I'll remember that," John returned, amiably taking Rich's hand in a farewell shake.

Rich dug a couple notes from his pocket and left them at the table to cover their charge. He exchanged a wave with their waitress, who was busy stacking chairs. The lights were coming on one by one again as the restaurant prepared for closing.

Rich followed John and Sherlock out onto the street, walking backward and waving with a cheerful "Goodbye and thank you again!" one last time.

Sherlock spared a sideways glance for Rich, watching his retreating silhouette. His grip tightened on the jewel case in his pocket. He didn't have to ask John what his impressions of the man had been; he was well aware that John's observational skills were a bit lacking. His colleague had bought the facade completely.

"You should have told me about the jazz, John."

John turned back to Sherlock, startled. He suddenly noticed that Sherlock wasn't just angry at having to sit in a crowded restaurant listening to someone other than himself talk for an evening. He was upset with John.

"The jazz? Wha- what on earth for?" He searched Sherlock's face, knowing it was a fruitless endeavor. He could ever only get out of Sherlock what Sherlock told him.

Sherlock's gaze shifted over to John's face, but remained inscrutable. His expression was vaguely strained, which normally happened when he thought something was absurdly obvious and was frustrated John hadn't seen it. "...you've never asked," he finally responded, as if that should clarify everything.

John stopped walking, confused. The cool wind picked up and whipped at his face, but he stood there anyway, unwilling to try keeping up with Sherlock's long strides. "What did I not ask?"

Sherlock could have kept walking, but after the way the evening had gone, after yesterday's mild fight... he was reluctant to leave the shorter man behind. He stopped a few paces ahead and turned until he was facing his companion. "I dislike being interrupted when I'm thinking, but I'm perfectly capable of playing a variety of genres at other times."

It took a moment for John to get it. Then he blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, his brows rose almost to his hairline in surprise.

"You… you would play jazz, if I asked you to?" John's mouth hung open a bit. The thought had truly never crossed his mind. The very idea that he could make _requests_ of Sherlock outside of his usual violin pieces was nearly unfathomable. That Sherlock might accept such a request, like a hokey old jazz tune, was even further beyond the realm of John's imagining.

Sherlock was slightly flushed, although whether from embarrassment or from the cold was impossible to tell. "Why would you think I'd be opposed to such things?" Was John really so uncomfortable around him that he would shy away from asking such a simple question? Sherlock was aware that he was difficult to live with, having been informed of this fact by numerous people over the years, but... surely he hadn't given the impression of being completely unapproachable?

Sherlock shifted in discomfort, wondering if there were other things he'd missed. Other things John was afraid to ask him.

"Well…." John drew out the sound, thinking back to why he hadn't ever thought of asking Sherlock to play something new for him. He had requested Sherlock to play pieces for him, pieces he liked, but only ones he’d heard Sherlock play before. He hadn't ever asked Sherlock to play something outside of his usual tastes. Truth be told, he'd assumed the answer if he had asked would be no, and that a tune John picked out, whatever it was, would be judged as beneath Sherlock's abilities. It would be like asking him to perform simple arithmetic. "I guess I just thought you didn't care for jazz. I've never heard you play any," he finished lamely. Sherlock was standing there on the sidewalk, lit from the shop windows behind him, looking like a mirror of John's own confusion. Something hopeful stirred in his stomach. "But, if you were willing…."

"I didn't know that you liked it," Sherlock admitted, slightly ashamed of the lapse. It was tantamount to admitting that he didn't pay attention to John's writings. The shorter man might mistakenly take it as a reflection of the esteem he was held in, rather than a simple avoidance of the meaningless chatter that filled the internet; Sherlock had quite enough of that from the press as it was.

"If you wish to make requests, you're more than welcome to do so. Within reason," he added. He hoped John didn't take it as a promise for a daily musical performance.

Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile twitched at the corners of John's open mouth. He laughed breathlessly, then again with more enthusiasm until he was downright chortling. "Well, if that's the case, it looks like I'll have to take you up on it." He shook his head at himself, at Sherlock, at the pair of them, really. Look at them, he thought, was this how other flatmates, friends, whatever they were, acted around each other? "Come on, let's get home and see you play some jazz." He picked up his step again.

Sherlock waited for John to catch up to him before turning and keeping pace, an uncharacteristically shy smile hovering over his lips. His flatmate's happiness at such a simple thing had quickly improved his mood.

Really, John was an anomaly. He was average in so many ways at the surface level - short, of average appearance, with common tastes in most things. He wasn't a match on a purely intellectual level, but he had some extraordinary, intangible qualities buried in him. It made his presence a pleasure rather than merely tolerable, and at the same time rendered Sherlock blind in a way he found mildly disturbing. For someone relatively guileless, John surprised him quite often.

John's smile turned up to Sherlock when he noticed the taller man watching him, then turned back to the path back to their flat while they made their way along the sidewalk, passing strangers as they went.

John would have the pleasure of seeing what Sherlock could do with the violin in an unconventional genre for the instrument. If they had time, he'd put in Richard's disk, but John was happy to leave it for tomorrow.

Until then, they would enjoy the music.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains an explicit underage scene. For those who wish to avoid it, check the notes at the bottom for details.

Beneath the pale grey sky on the other side of London, James Moriarty stepped out of a cab and narrowly avoided the same puddle of water that had been waiting for him every weekday morning for the past several months. He glanced up at the clouds overhead with a glare, as he often did, and then continued at a more cheerful pace down the sidewalk toward the back door of a small studio.

In a former era, the building had been a warehouse. It had been used off and on for low rent office and storage space until Jim got hold of it and transformed it into what it was today, the home of the soon to be famous B. Street Irregulars. 

Officially, the B. stood for "Beat" Street, a little joke on Jim's part. He couldn’t wait to see Sherlock wrestle with the allusion to his own residence.

Today he was dressed in only jeans and a soft, thin sweater one size too small. It stretched over his frame nicely, emphasizing his naturally slight size, and added a quality of youth and innocence he didn't normally possess.

On any other day, he hated the tedium of these mornings, these days, these weeks…on and on, the same routine. But, last night he’d made one step forward toward a greater goal and he was still riding that high. Things were finally coming together for him, or rather, for Richard Brook.

He pushed open the creaking metal door of the warehouse, shrugging off Jim and slipping into Rich. He dried his shoes on the carpet and with a bounce to his step, made his way down a short, poorly lit hall to the staging area. 

The full crew were almost all in by now, and they greeted Rich with the same enthusiasm they managed every morning. They knew him as Richard, "the nice guy". He waved to Larry, the cameraman. Or, Richard, "the shy sweetheart". He gave a hello with a great yawn to Sheryl, the only other adult performing on the show. And lastly, Richard, the trusted role model, who just wanted to play around and have a good time with the cast he had grown to love. His lips spread with a grin that stretched across his face, perhaps a little too wide, though not at all forced, as he gave a high-five and a half-hug that turned into a full-bodied swing to Jake, the dark haired, sweet faced boy and the oldest of his three other co-stars.

Jake was by far his favorite, and there was no question why - with his almond grey eyes, full mouth, and dark curls of hair. Give him twenty years and he would be a nearly identical match to one industrious detective residing on the other side of the city.

Although Jim did consider his versatility a trait of greatness, when he’d created Richard's persona as a shy actor, and found this boy Jake, he hadn’t fully foreseen the road down which ”Rich” would lead him. There had been days leading up to his arrival at the studio for Richard's first audition that he had dreaded the tedium of the whole thing.

He was a magnificent actor, even under duress, but this new life was going to be _boring_. Sweet, little Richard Brook was _boring_ , yet Jim still needed him.

Upon the first day’s arrival, something quite unexpected happened. There, in the center of the stage, were Jake and Austin, 12 and 9 years old respectively, posing in front of three enormous video cameras. As is often the case with contrasting figures, the size of the cameras made the youths appear much smaller than they were, and the smallness of the youths made the filming equipment seem larger… -oppressive, even.

And there an idea began.

It was an unusual thought that struck Richard, for Jim had become him then, and had forced himself to do so almost completely to get into the role. It came from Jim’s lingering mind and rearranged Rich’s sweet personality to such an extent that the former Richard Brook became… almost unrecognizable.

In that moment, watching a young boy with a mop of dark curls to match Sherlock's, leaning this way and that in the narrow eye of a lens, Jim had found his, very particular, motivation to keep the tedium at bay.

"Mornin', Rich," Jake said with a smile, head tilting as he gazed up at his co-star and mentor-turned-friend. "What's goin' on? You're lookin' pretty happy for this early."

Unusual schedules came with the business of acting, and the B. Street Irregulars were no exception in this. The whole staff was in the habit of taking coffee and tea together before starting work, and they were all used to a quieter, more subdued Richard. Until the caffeine perked him up for the day, anyway.

"Aha, that I am." Rich let the young performer go and ruffled his hair, a common greeting between them. "I have a feeling this little studio is about to get an _exciting_ new offer," he added with a quick wink and then continued, not so subtly. "Still, think I could use some coffee. _Laaaate_ night last night…"

They made their way over to the refreshment table. The director was grabbing pastries while having an informal conference with Larry and his assistant about the bounced light being too harsh on the new RED cameras, but they were engrossed in their conversation.

Jake shadowed along behind his friend, helping himself to a mug of black tea. The older staff had decided not to allow the kids any of the coffee after a disastrous trial run; the backstage horseplay had spilled into filming time and none of the children had been able to keep their minds on their lines. Clearly, too much stimulation could be a bad thing.

"Can you tell me what kinda offer we're gonna get, or is it top secret or something?" Jake asked in a half-whisper.

Rich's eyes darted left and right conspiratorially as he sipped his coffee. He leaned back against the table and his gaze finally landed on Jake. He was not so subtly hiding a playful smirk behind his mug. "Ooooh… _Definitely_ top-secret. You're going to have to wait until tonight."

It wasn't unusual for Richard to talk business with Jake and sometimes with the other boys, who had yet to arrive. They and the rest of the cast had formed a camaraderie and rapport that came naturally from working side by side, day after day. Sheryl joked once that she sometimes forgot how young the kids were when they were going over lines. That may have had something to do with the caffeine incident.

Rich just… took it further. With the rest of the crew he could be somewhat shy, even though most of them knew he had done a lot to get the studio to where it was with the networks, but with Jake he was different. With Jake, he'd opened up immediately.

The boy affected a pout for a moment before his perpetual smile returned in full force. He knew Rich would tell him everything, but sometimes it was hard to be patient. At least Rich treated him like a real person. Even though he and Austin and Corey were stars on the show, the rest of the crew had a tendency to talk down to them.

A startled cry went up from one side of the room, quickly followed by Austin skating his way over to the table. He shot Rich and Jake a grin as he grabbed a couple digestives, scooting away again just as a crewmember came to lecture him about skateboarding outside of designated areas. Rich held his coffee precariously high overhead while Austin sailed by, nearly spilling.

Finally the few remaining cast members were showing up. Corey, a blond boy who was short for his age, was saying goodbye to his mother at the door. Austin was the youngest of the group, and Jake was the oldest. When the three stood side by side for photos, their heights reflected their ages and so they always made sure to stand in the same formation. With Rich behind the three, his storybook open in hand, they resembled a pyramid. Usually that turned into the cover image for the programme.

"Okay guys, let's everybody get dressed and ready to go!" the director shouted, shooing Rich and Jake away from the alluring aroma of the baked goods.

"Yeah, yeah," Jake said, rolling his eyes. He'd already done his vocal warm-ups for the morning, so all he needed was a quick wardrobe change. Taking care not to spill his tea, the dark haired boy hurried toward the dressing room.

Their costumes were fairly standard for a performance that catered to children: bright colors and simple patterns, common everyday garments tweaked with a vibrant palette. Corey and Austin were already changing into their outfits when Jake and Rich arrived. They dressed according to character, Corey decked out in sporty striped trousers and a jersey and Austin rocking the typical skater look with his hoodie tee.

Jake set his tea mug on a table and started undressing, grabbing his assigned clothing. As he was cast as the show's "studious child", he was given a more cheerful, slightly more casual version of a standard school uniform. The idea had been to appeal to a wide spectrum of children, encouraging everyone to embrace their natural strengths and interests. Given how well their ratings were doing, it seemed like the strategy was working.

Two stylists saw to it that everyone got into their outfits and made sure their makeup and hair were in place. Carmen, comb clutched tightly in hand, immediately went for Richard, who was the worst of the lot when it came to sitting still to be dolled up. He shrugged into his red velvet jacket and twirled out of her reach just in time, much to the amusement of everyone.

"No way, not today!" She looked comical for a moment, putting her hands on her hips. She knew he was only messing with her, but they went through it every morning. "Sit!"

"Fiiiiine." With an excessive roll of his eyes, he dropped down in her chair, looking more like he was steeling himself for the dentist's than a bit of makeup. The boys snickered while she ran her fingers through his hair… and he made the most tortured expressions. 

When she finished, she handed him his leopard print tie and swatted him out of her chair. "There, all done. Be gone with you!”

Richard looked at himself this way and that in the mirror, adjusting the tie and the jacket, which were an awful clash of deep red velvet and leopard spots. Perhaps it truly was an outfit that an eccentric professor who spent his days narrating the lives and musical mishaps of three children might wear, but the little voice in the back of his mind he had to tune out for most of the day longed for the fit of his Westwood.

With everyone now presentable, the cast and crew filtered out onto the set. Corey and Jake both looked up while they walked to watch adjustments being made to the lighting. Both of them had discovered early on that the catwalk up above led to a bunch of hidey-holes just begging to be explored, and it had been a challenge for the adult staff to keep them from climbing up there during off hours.

The three boys lined up at the front of the stage, waiting for direction. They all knew the script by heart after the last few days of practice, but they didn't always know where the director would want them to start. Edward often had them shoot scenes out of order rather than filming straight from start to finish.

Today, he wanted them starting at the beginning since the stage was set for it and it would get the kids in the right place mentally. Afterwards they’d be doing a bit of green screen work. A guitar was the feature piece of this episode. Corey's trendy aunt, played by Sheryl, was visiting from Paris and had brought along the instrument. Throughout the episode the kids, with the professor's help, would learn how to play, and struggle through being forced to share it.

It was an utterly juvenile plot structure.

Stray thoughts like that often surfaced from the deep, dark pit in the back of Richard's mind. Judging from the unconscious body language and facial expressions of some of the cast, even their lesser minds sometimes agreed. Jim could not fault Sherlock for his immediate disdain of children's television, but to Richard, the struggling entertainer, it meant so much more. It had to. _Richard_ actually believed in the merit to this sort of thing, no matter where his principals in other areas might appear to lie.

Richard looked on while they began doing takes, keeping Jake always in his line of sight.

Their programme was nearing the end of its season. Soon they would be wrapping up and shooting one last winter episode to play over the holidays and keep the world interested until the next year. If Jim had his way, and he most certainly would, there would not be another season of The B. Street Irregulars. Instead, there would be one featuring Baker Street. 

The kids dutifully ground their way through the episode, delivering witty lines that had been written weeks ago right on cue, coping with the difficulty of learning a new skill, and smiling in wonder as time and effort paid off and transformed their acoustic attempts with the guitar from painful to pleasing.

There was a brief moment of panic during one of the choreographed musical numbers when Corey didn't jump quickly enough, causing Austin to veer off-course and actually tumble off the raised stage. Austin managed to escape with only a couple of scrapes and bruises, luckily enough, and Carmen managed to patch him right up.

Austin was a talented skater, even good outside of the show, and he knew how to land. It saved him the few extra bruises. 

All in all, it was just another day, with another minor variation on the same series of events. Somehow, they were comfortable even in this fast paced routine.

Still, wrap-up time could not have come sooner. Rich had been outwardly silent about the news he’d promised to share with Jake, but he hadn't let the boy forget it. Whenever he could get away with it, he whispered pointedly ‘how bright the future was looking’, or wondering how Jake's name would look ‘displayed in lights’. It was all teasing, watching the boy's curiosity mount at every word, just waiting for the end of the shoot.

Jake breathed a sigh of relief when the director called it a day, loosening the top two buttons on his shirt as the cast got out from under the heat of the stage lights. Acting was surprisingly hard work, especially when he wasn’t totally engaged in the story he was performing. Some of the plots their writers came up with were unbelievably canned, even for a 12 year old, and it was difficult to make the audience care when he himself didn't.

Everyone was milling around in the back, drifting between refreshment tables and dressing rooms while the tech crew rushed about to store the more valuable equipment away. Jake caught Rich's eye and tilted his head in question; he didn't know yet if more was in store for tonight, and he hadn't forgotten his mentor's promise to share the day's big news when they had more privacy.

Rich nodded slyly to the boy in response. 

Their usual routine was to leave and make it look like they’d gone home, hang about for a little while, pick up dinner, and then return to the studio when it was empty. Once in a while, Rich drove the other cast members home, along with Jake, just to keep up appearances. The boy lived not too far out of the way, and with his busy mother's permission to work late, it was assumed that that was all they were doing.

Today however, everyone was clearing out fairly quickly, and with only a bit of dawdling, soon Rich and Jake were the last ones there. "Make sure to lock up and hit the lights!" were Edward’s parting words. The man didn’t think twice about leaving them alone together.

As soon as they heard the sound of the door swing shut behind him, Rich threw his head back and yelled to the empty stage, "FINALLY!"

Jake laughed, grinning at his friend's enthusiasm. "Today took _forever_ , di'n'it?" he grumbled good-naturedly. "I don't know where the writers come up with that rubbish, I really don't." It had almost been painful, waiting for the filming to be over so he could move on to something more exciting.

"So, you gonna tell me what the fuss was about this mornin', or are you just gonna keep me hanging all night?"

"Depends on how curious you are….?" Rich said playfully as he shrugged out of his coat. It was very warm.

His movements relaxed, becoming more fluid and elongated than they usually were in the day. Richard, during daylight hours, was a bottle of pent up tension. 

Whenever they were alone, something shifted ever so subtly. Richard was still Richard, of course, but it was as though degrees of a mask had been dropped from his person, a mask that was put up for everyone else. Jake thought it was probably due to his shyness.

Rich began walking backward toward the stage with the bounce from that morning reappearing in his step. He raised his eyebrows teasingly at Jake.

The boy laughed again, cracking up from the playful expression on Rich's face. "Oh c'mon. You taunt me all day about it, and now you're gonna make me have to pry it outta you? _So_ not fair."

Really, it was kind of flattering that Rich was willing to be so... open, so trusting, so much more _himself_ when they were hanging out as friends. Rich treated him more like an equal, someone on the same level, more than just a dumb know-nothing kid. In return, he got to unwind a little, not buried under shyness or an off-stage social persona adopted to deal with the managers, director, and everyone else.

Rocking back on his heels for a moment, Jake shoved his hands in his pockets and followed Rich out onto the stage.

"Well….let's just say….I hope you still have that coat I gave you last week." He began clearing away a space on the set and was pulling one of the new standing cameras out of its storage corner. "You might be needing it again. Very soon." Now Rich was grinning. "Just as soon as I get the call from John Watson over the _proposition I gave him last night._ " 

Rich had explained to Jake in secret his general idea for the programme based on the famous detective. Almost everyone knew the name Sherlock Holmes now. He was hot news. Rich talked about it like it was going to be huge. And it _could_ be.

Rich smiled. The light danced in his dark eyes. "You're going to be _Sherlock_ , love."

Jake's eyes grew wide, his nonchalant demeanor vanishing in bits and pieces as he absorbed this information.

This was huge. _This was fucking HUGE_. Not only would he be in a show based on the latest up-and-coming celebrity that had captured public attention, he'd be the _star_. This could be his break into the business, taking him from being a typecast child actor in a cliche children's programme to... something even adults wouldn't mind watching with their kids. Perhaps even enough adults to get him noticed and help him make the jump from telly to the stage. Or _cinema_.

" _Bloody hell_ ," Jake exclaimed, not needing to worry about his mum overhearing and smacking his mouth for his language. "Are you sure? You're not taking th' piss with me, are you?"

"Not one bit." Rich's lips curled into a half smile that… almost looked like it belonged on someone else. He liked it when Jake's mouth turned foul. He'd had no small part in encouraging it with the boy when they were alone. "I met with them, and it took all night, but John was sold. We're golden. We'll be signed away and writing in no time. Networks will be scrambling over themselves for this."

With the crackling energy from the boy’s excitement filling the air, Rich's smirk took on another, more direct quality, and a narrow, heated intensity.

"Now. Come over here and thank me."

Jake's eyes turned a shade darker, exhilaration still leaving them with a feverish shine. He stepped quickly across the stage, his head tilting as he got closer so he could maintain eye contact with the taller man. He wrapped Richard in a tight hug, a grateful smile gracing his mouth. "Thank you, Rich. This means a lot to me. A _lot_."

Rich settled his arms around Jake's shoulders, allowing himself to be enveloped by the embrace. His hands moved up and swept through Jake's hair, thoroughly tangling in it. In the back of his mind, Jim marveled at the boy's likeness to the detective.

It had been no coincidence, finding Jake. 

In fact, one of Jim’s greatest inventions to date was the very thing that enabled him to search out a boy so close to perfection. Everything Jim Moriarty did had a purpose, even if the events that lead up to it were unclear. When he'd worked anonymously in online security and identity obfuscation, a project which later became known as the Tor Project, and unbeknownst to others who contributed, it was all for the purpose gathering clients: clients who were not computer-literate enough or well connected enough, though they had to be _criminal_ enough - that was a stipulation, to gain access to the private networks behind the web. 

Jim needed an underground world, easily accessible to anyone, with all the anonymity he required for his own personal work. ‘The Dark Web for Dummies’, he had mockingly called it. Of course, the technology had its other, more moral and legitimate uses, and Jim left himself solely uncredited in its creation. It was his one inadvertently good deed for the people of government oppressed countries around the world. 

With the networks he’d created years ago still firmly in place, having multiplied exponentially since then, he hadn't needed to wait long or employ the efforts of any one, dedicated, hired hand to find Jake. 

He'd sent out his request en masse over the anonymous web and let its inhabitants do what they did best, looking for a boy who resembled the detective cropping up in the news, none of them ever knowing why.

And here he was, Jake, who had been perfect for the role in every way. His chin and face were smaller, natural with his age, but his eyes were slanted like Sherlock's, his mouth was full like Sherlock's, and he played his part perfectly… with only a bit of influence from the loving, trusted Richard Brook.

Rich tilted the boy's head back and bent down so that they were level. Rich’s head dipped, a smile pulling at his lips before he sought the boy’s mouth with his own.

Jake leaned forward willingly, his smile gaining an edge of shyness that hadn't quite gone away, even though he was used to this by now. Whatever had brought them together in the beginning, Rich saw him and liked him for who he was, and being the subject of so much intense focus and affection was... overwhelming, but welcome. It was nice to have someone who paid attention to him for _him_ , who actually wanted him around. Jake often felt like his mum wouldn't even notice if he ran away and went to live on the street.

Their lips touched, Jake's mouth opening slightly as his hands curled at Rich's back, tugging at his shirt until it came untucked. No, he didn't mind this at all. They'd have to wait a few years before they could be open about it, but he could be patient.

Rich knelt down farther, his knees hitting the ground. He loosened his tie and let Jake pull at his shirt, his own hands coming to rest at the back of Jake's head. From this angle, he was now looking up at the boy when they broke apart. Rich didn't mind. His right hand trailed down Jake's chest, popping the rest of his buttons on the way until the cloth hung loosely around his waist.

"You're going to be amazing. My star…" Rich whispered. Their gazes met and Rich was looking at him reverently, eyes glittering in the stage lights. He bent and placed a kiss on the boy's collar bone, moving downward.

Jake arched slightly, torn between sinking into the sensations and watching the seductive image of Rich, brilliant, _handsome_ Rich down on his knees in front of him. The thought that this genius man actually wanted him still made his breath catch, every time. Jake didn't think he was all that special, not yet, but Rich thought otherwise.

"And you'll stay with me, on the project, right?" he murmured, locking gazes with the dark eyes that had earned all of his trust. "I wanna film it with _you_."

"Of course. I wouldn't have it any other way," Rich responded without hesitation. Richard Brook was most certainly not going anywhere.

He began undoing Jake's trousers when his mouth reached the hem just a few inches below his belly button, grazing his palm over the sensitive area beneath. They were pushed down along with his pants when Rich hooked his fingers into the belt loops. He could feel the pulse beating under Jake's skin where Rich's thumb rested over the dip in the juncture of Jake's hip and thigh. He was growing, getting ever so slightly taller with the passing months. It was barely noticeable to those around him, but Rich could tell, especially while having him undressed like this. Right now the boy rested on a precipice. It would be a year or so before hormones really started in.

The pink tip of Rich's tongue ran over his lips, barely visible, and he leaned in and took the boy's small cock in his mouth.

Jake's eyes rolled back in his head despite his efforts to keep watching. His legs shook, forcing him to grab onto Rich's shoulders to support himself or risk his knees buckling and dropping him to the floor.

He'd played around with other boys before; that sort of things was more common than not. It'd all been part of the rough-n-tumble, wrestling and games interspersed with the occasional experimentation and touching. It had all just been messing around with mates, though, nothing serious - certainly nothing that felt this _intense_. Maybe it was because Rich had more experience, knowing exactly what to do instead of fumbling around in back alleys or locker room corners, laughing it off later.

Jake inhaled sharply as he felt Rich's tongue move over a sensitive spot and his teeth caught on his lower lip.

Rich hummed low in his throat, allowing the vibrations to pass through their contact. The sound it produced was deep, inarticulate. He didn't have to work much like this. Jake was small and it was easy to let his tongue take up most of the effort. He enjoyed the feel of the boy's hands on his shoulders, digging through the fabric of his shirt to grasp the flesh below and hold on. It was easy to gauge the sensations Jake was feeling based on the intensity of his grip and the squirm of his hips. Rich placed a hand at the small of his back and lowered the boy to the floor without letting go.

Jake moaned at the stimulation the humming brought, then sighed in relief as Rich started shifting them; he'd lost his balance once before and he didn't want a repeat of the experience. Letting himself get caught and guided to the floor freed up his hands for other things. He let his fingers tangle in Rich's hair, disturbing the sleek order from the day's earlier film work. He liked the way Rich looked when completely disheveled. It made him appear vulnerable and human, completely endearing.

Rich grinned up at him for a moment, eyes alight and hair in disarray. He knew what Jake wanted to see, and he didn't mind. He liked it.

His hands spread out over Jake's prone body as he continued licking and sucking. The boy had amazing skin, so soft, everywhere he touched. That supple quality would inevitably fade with time, even if his skin remained flawless. Rich savored the opportunity to enjoy it now.

Rich reached down with one hand, wriggling it beneath his trousers to palm his own erection. He gasped softly and an expression of bliss flitted across his features. He grew more excited in his ministrations to Jake, matching the movements with his hand in tandem.

_Perfect_. Jake's hips jerked up unconsciously, and Rich easily pushed him back down with one hand. Jake couldn't believe he'd ever been hesitant about this. Nobody else ever made him feel this way, feel this much. It gave him an odd sense of power, that he could cause another person to want him this _much_.

Jake glanced down through half-lidded eyes, watching the expressions flit across Rich's face, knowing from the movement of one arm that the other man had started touching himself.

Rich wasn't going to last long. Between waiting on set all day and the dull ache of Jim's excitement since the meeting last night, he'd been on edge for a long time. He leaned to one side to get a better angle. Still mostly clothed, the heat drawing up inside of him was overwhelming, but wonderfully so. His other hand grasped firmly at Jake's hip, an unconscious action. His breathing was quickly becoming irregular. His eyes darted up to Jake's face, needing to see the results of his work. The youth looked blissful, lost in pleasure.

Jake’s breathing hitched as he fought to hold on as long as he could. Even though they'd been doing this for a little while now, he still was pretty inexperienced It was embarrassing to come so quickly, although he couldn't _actually cum_. Not yet, anyways. At least Rich never complained about any of that. Rich seemed to like the quick recovery that came with it, too.

Jake risked one more glance down and lost it, eyes sliding closed as one hand untangled itself from Rich's hair and covered his mouth. He bit the side of his palm in an attempt to muffle his cry.

Eyes still locked on Jake's face, Rich smiled, still sucking hard, pulling him through it. Rich could feel shudders wrack the small body underneath him.

As Jake rode out the sensation, Rich crawled upward, resting only a fraction of his weight on the boy, and kissed him hungrily. Rich was close, too, his hips grinding into his hand and against the body beside him for extra friction. He opened his eyes, watching Jake's closed ones as their mouths met. Rich took in the small arch of his brow, the roundness of his eyes underneath his lashes, the dark curl of hair that rested just above his cheek. With only a few more pumps, Richard was coming into his hand. He broke away for air and let his release wash through him.

Jake melted against the floor as he caught his breath, the task made more difficult due to the weight settled on top of him. He felt a couple drops of warmth hit his bare chest and couldn't help but smirk, teeth bared. He opened his eyes and watched as it was Rich's turn to gasp for air.

"Consider yourself thanked," he grinned, just a little disappointed that it came out softer and shakier than he'd planned.

A high-pitched giggle erupted from Rich's throat and he rested his head on Jake's small shoulder. It trailed into something breathier as he composed himself.

"You're welcome," he whispered into Jake's ear, letting his breath tickle the sensitive skin. He kissed the spot just below it, then lifted himself up into a sitting position. His hair was a mess from Jake's hands. His tie and shirt looked like they were about to slip off his shoulders at any moment. He was smiling down at the boy, who was just as rumpled and gorgeous like that, with a satisfied gaze and knowing eyes. "Now, let's get you home before your mother has my head for being late again."

Jake nodded, drinking in the sight. He could never quite get over the fact that he could find this particular thread Rich kept hidden, pull, and watch him unravel at the seams. _He_ made him look like this.

"Get off so I can get up," he said, squirming out from under Rich as the man complied and getting to his feet. Giving Rich one last glance, Jake walked off towards the washroom to get cleaned up.

Richard watched him go, the smile never leaving his lips. He would follow in a moment, but _Jim_ wanted to watch the boy like this. It recalled for him a moment he had seen only once before, a very long time ago, watching another disheveled boy with dark curls walking away. Sherlock had been disheveled for another reason entirely, having managed to worm his way up to the day-old scene of a tragic drowning accident and was trying to get the police to listen to his theory that it wasn't an accident at all. He hadn't known Jim was there and watching his back from a distance. 

Jim would never forget it.

Then, it had seemed like the beginning of something. Now, Jim had set a new game into motion.

-

After only a four hour jaunt at the clinic that morning, John had spent the rest of his day doing menial tasks. One last load of laundry and that would be the end of it. At least they now had plenty of groceries and other daily necessities. He hadn't needed to leave the house, and for once that was kind of nice.

John found himself thinking a lot about their night out with Richard Brook and just what a television show featuring himself and Sherlock as fictional characters might look like. It was flattering and embarrassing to imagine at the same time. John wasn't used to thinking of himself as a media "item". As unusual as it was, he couldn't help feeling excited about the prospect. And… he'd liked Richard. He seemed shy in personality, but bold when he was talking about his work, like it was really something he believed in. John liked that; he could respect that in a person. 

Sherlock had spent the day completely listless, his mobile nearly glued to his side as he waited for a case to crop up. He had a puzzle to occupy him in the meantime, but little progress had been made thus far.

While John was away at the clinic, Sherlock had watched all of disc Richard Brook had given them the previous night. It was all very standard: inane music and dance numbers, pitiful excuses for plotlines, boring characters based on stereotypes, _everything_. He didn't understand how the general populace could devour the same rubbish again and again, buying into it when it was repackaged and rebranded the next month.

Perhaps the same principle applied to adults as to children - repetition and the familiar were comforting in their lack of challenge and uncertainty.

Still, there had to be something he was missing. Internet searches on Richard Brook hadn't turned up anything out of the ordinary. If it was an act, Sherlock was certain there was something on the disc. Something more than the B. Street Irregulars' mindnumbing audition material. Indeed, when he’d used his laptop to analyze the percentage of data on the disk, it had been higher than expected. Higher than it should have been for the video and audio quality the episodes had been recorded in. Either the studio crew were less proficient at their craft than they had presented themselves to be, or another file was hidden on that disc. 

A soft whistling came in through the hallway, preceding John with an armful of laundry. He passed Sherlock as he went to put his things away, noticing the absent way in which his flatmate was staring off into space. He'd been at it all day.

"What do you say about popping that disk in to watch tonight?" John asked even though he was halfway up the stairs, intending to drop the clothes on his bed and then come back down.

Sherlock didn't really want to watch the disc again, but having another pair of eyes devoted to the task might help him figure out the puzzle. For someone who didn't really observe what he was seeing, John was remarkably apt at times, subconsciously identifying oddities that clashed with his knowledge of human social behavior or connected to bits of pop culture. John might spot something he missed and bring his attention to it.

"Certainly," Sherlock replied, waiting for John to be out of sight before he retrieved the disc from his laptop; he didn't want his colleague to know he'd already watched it without him.

When John came back in, he was wearing a burgundy sweater and smelling of fresh laundry. He stopped in the kitchen for two cups of tea and then plopped down in his chair beside Sherlock's, setting the mugs on the stand between them.

"Alright then. Suppose we should have got some popcorn, hm?" He had waited most of the day for this out of respect to Sherlock, whom he knew probably didn't want to think about it, and John didn't want to seem overly eager. Might send Sherlock into one of his rants.

"We may as well," Sherlock agreed. His pale eyes tracked John as he stood again and returned to the kitchen. Really, it was just an excuse to watch him without his colleague being acutely aware that he was being observed. Sherlock normally found people quite boring, but John was somehow an exception to the rule, and the temptation to study him had steadily increased over the course of their friendship.

Clanking and clattering came from the kitchen. A few minutes later the distinct sounds of kernels popping, and the unmistakable heady, buttery aroma of popcorn filled the flat. John reemerged with a bowl in hand. "Nothing quite like a movie and popcorn," he said as he switched off the light and settled in again. "Haven't done this in a long time." He popped a kernel in his mouth and then held the bowl out for Sherlock. "Let's see what we've got."

Sherlock accepted the bowl and handed John the disc in return, getting to enjoy watching John get up yet again and set up the video for viewing. The corners of his mouth quirked up slightly, gone before his flatmate turned around. He grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl as John settled back into his chair and fiddled with the remote to start the programme.

The titles rolled in featuring a musical number that, for a kid's show, was actually quite well done in John's opinion. When they reached a DVD menu, he scrolled through the available listings. There were a few episodes, a behind the scenes feature, and a few others listed as casting footage. Rich must have put this together specifically for them because the title read: Welcome Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes.

John hit play on the first episode, wanting to see the finished product before any behind the scenes work. The intro title rolled again, featuring three boys, one running in with a basketball, one skating in on rollerblades, and a third following with a set of schoolbooks in hand. John cocked his head to one side curiously. The intro played on, Richard's character being introduced and the group playing a brief jam session of various instruments as the title "B. Street Irregulars" swung into place.

John gave it a minute as the episode began, introducing the main characters. One liked sports, one liked anything with wheels, apparently, and the last, yes, the studious one with books and a mop of dark, curly hair…. 

"Hey Sherlock, doesn't that one look just like you?" John laughed.

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied in deadpan. Really, he needed to point that out? "From Mr. Brook's confidence yesterday, among other things, I've ascertained that he already has most of the casting for his project lined up. Likely rough drafts of episodes as well. That boy is probably his lead candidate for portraying me." Why else would Rich give him the episodes that he did, all with a heavy focus on the dark-haired boy as the episode’s lead protagonist, rather than his fellow cast mates?

Sherlock turned slightly under the pretense of grabbing another handful of popcorn from the bowl between them, taking the opportunity to note John's expression while he was distracted. He hadn't thought John would find the programme so enjoyable.

John looked from the screen to Sherlock, then back again. And once more. Before this, he couldn't imagine how Sherlock must have looked as a child. Now, it was all too easy to transpose the boy's face onto his flatmate, and that was a very strange thought.

"That sounds…a bit overly confident, don't you think?" John suggested. "I mean, planning yes, that's to be expected, but he only just met with us yesterday. How could he have a cast already in mind?" But, maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe Richard had thought the boy he was already working with would make a good Sherlock.

He took another handful of popcorn.

"He was completely confident last night. The shyness was an affectation. A social lubricant, if you will, combined with a few others - a casual atmosphere with relaxing music, the temporary bonding that forms when people indulge in food rituals together... It was a sales pitch, a very purposeful one. He's already got studio backing, so funds and equipment are not an issue. The market is primed for detective stories at present, so that's no obstacle."

Sherlock locked gazes with John. "He'll do a programme regardless of whether we agree to it or not. What he wants is the official sanction, the name. If we don't agree, Brook will do what he was planning to do anyways and simply rearrange things slightly, rename the characters. Since he'll want to begin filming relatively soon and he's planning to move forward regardless of what we say, he'll have already made preparations."

John's face fell a little, suddenly not feeling all that special anymore.

He could see the rationality behind Sherlock's suggestion. This was, after all, business. John did understand that anyone producing popular television had to step on toes to get their projects running. But that was not what he had seen in Richard last night. Sure, Richard was ambitious, but that didn't outweigh his personality. "He _faked_ being shy, came alone, took us to an artsy little hole-in-the-wall pizza joint with local music, and was generally an all-around really nice guy? Aspiring media tycoons should take a page out of his book!" John whistled like he was marveling at the thought. "Alright, say you're right, that if he doesn't get our names, he'll go on to do a detective show anyway. Well, that's not a crime, is it? If I were him, I'd have thought the idea, by itself, was good, too. And we can't really stop him."

"No, we can't," Sherlock agreed, taking in the flickers of expression rapidly transforming John's features. "The goal should be to determine whether lending him our names would be harmful and whether the programme would cause entanglements I'd rather avoid. I don't particularly enjoy the idea of being hounded by the press whenever I step outside."

Recognition was wonderful, yes. Praise as well, but Sherlock wasn't a naturally extroverted person; not only did he not want to have to jump through media hoops, but having a crowd of people tailing him wasn't conducive to investigations.

John's lips thinned, and he nodded in understanding. Sherlock didn’t do the "famous celebrity” schtick. After the hat incident, and then the subsequent articles, television features, and so on, that became apparent to John. John supposed that he wasn't really the "famous" type either. He looked back as the programme played on. 

But… he did have to admit that it was a good idea. Also, it was a better idea _with_ Sherlock's help than without it. John bit his lip, thinking. "As far as you being famous, the damage is already done."

"There is damage done, yes, but it can get worse." It was an awkward balance, getting the acknowledgement he craved while keeping out of the spotlight enough to disappear whenever things became too uncomfortable.

"If the current... fad gets too out of hand, it will make our lives unpleasant, and my work much more difficult. I don't want it to cross that line, and I'm uncertain whether allowing a programme to use our names will push things over the edge. Or whether it would even _without_ our names."

If that was Sherlock's main concern, John had to admit that he could understand. Guiltily, he also conceded that hadn't thought about just how big of an impact a show like this could have on life as it was outside of 221b.

It struck John that this was probably just the beginning. Any number of people could be turning up at their doorstep, wanting to feature them television programmes, talk shows, radio broadcasts, and so on. Richard just so happened to be the first.

And then there was his own writing. John swallowed. He had thought about turning his blog entries into something bigger. A few were nearly novel length already. It was something he'd really wanted, in fact, but he hadn't thought about the kind of unwanted attention it would bring down on Sherlock.

"Sherlock…." John began, a note of apprehension in his voice. "About my blog…."

Sherlock tensed, his gaze wandering over John out of habit as he tried to read what his flatmate was thinking by observing his body language. "Yes, what about it?" A pause, and a sigh. "...no, John, I don't mind your writing. I may criticize your tendency to exaggerate in the retelling, or your emphasis of the wrong details, or your occasional unflattering comments about me, but if I minded you posting the blog you would already know."

"And what if…for example…I might have thought about turning some of it into books?" John's eyes were now locked on Sherlock, the glow of the telly lighting half of his face in a multicolored array. 

Sherlock had criticisms aplenty for the blog entries, but strangely enough, he'd never asked, nor even implied, that John should stop writing about him. John suspected that he occasionally liked the flattery. It said something that John barely wrote about his own life anymore, and instead had turned into Sherlock's biographer. But a novel series might be something else entirely.

Tense discomfort surfaced on Sherlock’s face for a split-second before it was smoothed over. "I-... I would want to talk about it beforehand," he replied quietly, his gaze meeting John's. "And I would want... more of a say about what went into them, if I agreed. But I wouldn't necessarily refuse the idea."

A few months ago, he would have. He'd initially been quite upset about the hat incident and the subsequent random emails from fans. Despite that, he found it difficult to deny John a hobby that obviously made him happy, and the attention did assuage his ego even as it brought problems as well.

John nodded slowly. That wasn't a refusal, but it didn't inspire a lot of confidence either. Still, it almost seemed like Sherlock was being _nice_ about the subject. He turned back to the telly.

"We can work that out later. Let's just see about this for now." He switched to the behind-the-scenes feature, giving them a look of the studio where filming took place. It didn't seem very big as far as John could see, but he didn't really know how these things were shot either.

Sherlock switched his attention back to the screen, observing the material one more time as the camera gave them a short tour of the facility, which looked very straightforward, albeit a bit smaller than the standard studio. Despite the cozy size, every piece of equipment that appeared in the background looked to be the newest models, expensive and well cared for. They weren't skimping on video quality.

The dressing rooms were cramped, no surprises there. The camera took them on a walk down a hallway, then gave them a look at the room where they edited everything together. Sherlock frowned as he noted the room’s contents; he wasn't as familiar with editing equipment as he was with cameras. The extra data was probably encrypted on a hidden part of the disc, but he’d need to know more about what equipment might have been used before he could explore that suspicion.

Sherlock looked lost in thought every time John glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The detective in him was showing His head was lowered, his gaze locked to the telly, his posture still.

John thought the editing process was fascinating. He watched as green panels disappeared behind actors, replaced by colorful scenery. The original colors were tweaked and amplified to create something more vibrant. Special effects such as a vortex of light were created out of an intricate web of shapes within the editing program that John didn't fully understand. It was all a neat glimpse into the world of movie magic.

Yet… his flatmate still hadn't moved, nor spoken.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Sherlock had to lie. Whoever Richard Brook was, he was currently only targeting _him_ , not John. That much had been apparent from their dinner meeting. Sherlock wanted to deal with this quietly, on his own. Alerting John would just cause his flatmate to get involved, making everything more complicated than it had to be.

"The studio is a lot smaller than is typical for a production of this size and market, yet they have cutting edge equipment in every room. More than would be usual for a company's budget, which means they have some very affluent supporters. Even taking a smaller workspace at reduced rent wouldn't cover the equipment costs." That was as close to his real thoughts as Sherlock was willing to venture.

John's eyebrow quirked. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was trying to say they were doing well enough to get outside funding, or that there was something underhanded going on within their studio. 

"Oh." On the other hand. "That must happen a lot in the industry though, right? Studios get backing from outside sources…. Rich did say they were only just getting on their feet."

They went through the whole disk, watching the actors go through casting, a bit about the idea behind the programme, and the rest of the episodes. By the time they finished, only kernels were left in the popcorn bowl.

Studios usually had backing from outside sources, yes, but not to this extent. Sherlock left it unsaid, his mind busy making plans for how to attack the problem once John was occupied elsewhere. He could borrow the laptop for preliminary research into the make and model of the equipment in the editing room, then determine the capabilities of each piece. He had contacts that could get him in a room with the right technology to analyze the disc for encryption, or... yes, the studio was local, so breaking in was an option. Decode the data using the very same machines that coded it in the first place...

Sherlock had absently reached for one of the last few kernels at the bottom of the bowl. His hand jerked back unconsciously when it encountered something unexpected, breaking his train of thought. Apparently John had had the same idea to finish off the bowl.

Their eyes met, both startled to find themselves in an unexpected moment of contact.

It seemed neither were going to move until John broke their gaze and looked into the bowl, deciding to take the route of practicality. His fingers moved about to confirm what he could see around their hands. No popcorn left. "Well," he cleared his throat softly. "Looks like we finished that off quickly." He took it and rose swiftly, heading to the kitchen with a dash of color in his cheeks.

Sherlock snatched his hand back like he'd been burned, rubbing it with his other hand as if to ascertain everything was in one piece and unharmed. This was one of the reasons he tended to lock himself in a room when he retreated to his mind palace to think - he got lost in the streams of thought. He lost track of his surroundings and any physical contact interrupted his mental state so abruptly that it was a bit of a shock.

John was eyeing him surreptitiously from the kitchen. 

He caught Sherlock's abrupt movement, and even though it didn't "mean anything", they weren't "like that", and therefore Sherlock's response or aversion to his touch was a nonissue, it still left a small, hollow feeling in his chest. 

He cleared his throat again, rinsed out the bowl, and forced himself to move on. "So what did you think, then? Because I've got to say, our level of fame aside, they've done some pretty good work.”

"The technical level of the work is fine. The writing, as expected, leaves much to be desired, but we don't know whether the same crew from this production is necessarily carrying over." 

Sherlock needed _time_. Time to examine everything from other angles.

"I need some time to consider, and we'll need to meet with Richard Brook again. At least once more." Sherlock would prefer to confront Brook alone, where he'd be more likely to drop the facade and confess his true aims, but he'd take what he could get.

John set his hands on the countertop, this time looking at Sherlock directly and forcing the uncomfortable feeling in his chest down a bit deeper. "Alright. Just let me know when and I'll give him a call." 

John finished cleaning up in the kitchen and made his way back to the sitting room, picking up his laptop on the way and turning on a small lamp beside him before sitting down. He clicked away at the keyboard, browsing idly, tuning out, and wondering if this was his way of giving Sherlock space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underage scene warning: Between Richard (Jim) and Jake near the end of their interaction.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock couldn't do what he wanted while John was there but, oddly, that didn't make him want to chase his flatmate away. As much as he wanted to work on the mystery of the disc _right that moment_ , the tiny rational part of his mind pointed out that it could wait a few more hours. For once, he let himself listen to it.

That, however, left him bored. If he couldn't work on unmasking Brook, he had nothing else to do. Or rather, nothing else that he cared to pursue; there was always a backlog of ideas for experiments, so long as he could find the drive to start them.

Getting to his feet, Sherlock strode over to where John was sitting, leaning on the back of his flatmate's chair to peer over his shoulder. Yesterday had reinforced an inarguable fact: he needed to pay more attention to what John wrote on the blog. Missing a critical piece of information was unacceptable.

Besides, it gave him something to do.

John gave it a moment as Sherlock stopped behind him, thinking the tall figure was going to move on. When the hovering presence didn't, John glanced over his shoulder and did a double take when he found himself face to face with Sherlock and far too close, nose resting only inches from his cheek.

"Ah. …hi." John hadn't meant to pitch his voice that high. Neck and shoulders suddenly tense, he looked back to his inbox where he'd been checking messages from the blog.

Sherlock's gaze flicked sideways for a moment, distracted from scanning over the emails as John opened them. All of them had appeared to be perfectly normal, inane questions and dull requests of what John should post next. John's reaction didn't match the content of his screen.

"...what _are_ you going to write next?" he asked, watching his colleague's pulse quicken. Sherlock didn't know whether John actually took suggestions from his readership or not.

"Hm. You know, I'm not quite sure yet." John paused. "Not like I can write about us staying up late watching telly. People would think I've lost it. I thought of writing about Zizzi, and you playing jazz. But, people might still think I've lost it." He laughed a little, trying to ignore just how aware of Sherlock's presence he was.

He realized that sometimes he was as lost as Sherlock was without a case. The truth was, he wrote moments like the one after Zizzi's in his blog all the time, but always within the context of a case. They were justifiable that way, a breath of fresh air amid a mountain of Sherlock's analytics and the logistics of the investigations. On their own, they would be nothing more than pure indulgence. That embarrassed John.

"You think they'd doubt your word?" Sherlock thought that seemed unlikely. Surely if John’s readers accepted the explanations of how each case had been worked out, how deductions could be drawn from small details that were often ignored, they would accept his descriptions of a dinner meeting and Sherlock's skill with a violin.

Unless... "You're embarrassed." Of him? Of the fact that they spent time together aside from the necessities of flatsharing and working on cases? "Is the time we spend together something you'd be displeased for other people to discover?"

"No!" Now _that_ was high pitched. "No," John tried again, his face coloring. "Not like that." John thought hard on how to explain this…discomfort, when it wasn't something he wanted to analyze closely himself. "It's…." He glanced at Sherlock, then back to the blog and stared at it fixedly. He couldn't take Sherlock's imploring gaze, so open and directed at him, just now. "I don't mind if people see us being, you know, domestic. And I think they _would_ believe that the events I say happened did happen. But…." He was looking for the right words, not entirely sure he wanted to admit this insecurity to Sherlock at all. "People see me writing about things like that…they see that _I_ value it…. And, well, they're generally aware of your, let's say "distant", personality by now…. Sometimes they say that I write you a little too…sensitive. And…they wonder if the emphasis is coming from me, not you."

John's face was burning now.

Sherlock frowned, wishing John would be more direct. Hell, wishing _people in general_ would be more direct about social things; there were too many rules to be bothered with, all of them arbitrary, with few rules carrying over consistently across cultures. Being witty was one thing, and it was entertaining to pick the truth out of peoples' lies, but all of this tap dancing around issues just caused frustration and wasted time.

...value. Sherlock held his breath for a moment, wondering whether he should ask the question that immediately came to mind as his attention settled on that key word. "Do you think I'm sensitive?"

That got John to look away from his blog and at Sherlock. Tension eased out of his shoulders and he exhaled as though he were resigning himself to his admission.

"Yes," he said flatly. "And incredibly _insensitive_ , too." That was the truth and it was easier to confess than the speculations of a small group of his readers, which may or may not have hit too close to home for his liking. "You manage to be both."

"So you think I've improved on some forms of social interaction, but am still deficient in other areas." If so, that was a valuable piece of information... but only if he had more details about what had worked and what hadn't. "How? I need examples, John."

In one blink John went from looking slightly uncomfortable to looking like someone had sloshed a glass of water in his face. "Well...I meant, there are a lot of ways of being 'sensitive'." This wasn't another experiment. Sherlock was serious about his curiosity though, and John took a moment to reorient his thoughts. "I meant, you're affected by what other people think about you, even if you say otherwise." He did have numerous examples to back this up. Sherlock's receptiveness to flattery of his mental faculties. His occasional petty vengeance upon John in the form of newly grotesque or troublesome experiments lying about the flat. His aggressive determination to prove anyone wrong who doubted his capabilities. "But, yes, playing jazz for me was a good example of you being sensitive in the other sense of the word. Sensitive toward me."

Sherlock had done that for John, and only for John, simply because he wanted to, there could be no doubt of that. And sometimes when they sat together, John certainly wasn't only imagining that Sherlock was attuned to him then, either.

"Ah. So you're referring to my actions expressing your value, not improvements in my skill at navigating dialogue." That was a bit disappointing. It was perfectly obvious that he held John in very high regard; his presence wasn't merely tolerated, but adjusted to within the boundaries of reason. He hadn't changed his behavior for anyone but Mycroft before, and that only after an intolerable chain of threats and bribery.

"Uhm, yeah, I guess so." It was funny how the tension flooded back at Sherlock's words. John supposed the readers had been saying both; Sherlock, as John wrote him, seemed better at expressing himself, verbally or non, and also at expressing his value of John…again, verbally or non. 

It implied wishful thinking on John's part.

Well, John thought, of course it was a bit of wishful thinking, dammit. Sherlock was only rarely expressive. How could John _not_ grasp at straws and whims in his writing?

It galled Sherlock to ask, but this was one of the areas of human behavior he couldn't seem to grasp through observation and the study of psychology. "Would you inform me of instances where I could improve my communication? When appropriate and in private." Being tutored about such things in public would not only counter his efforts when interviewing case witnesses, it would also be humiliating.

Sherlock already knew that he lacked 'tact', as Mycroft put it. He coped by ignoring it and the reactions it caused in others when he didn't conform to their expected boundaries. Having his attention drawn to the issue while being observed would be... unpleasant.

John looked at Sherlock, blinked, opened his mouth, and then, finally, nodded. "I…can do that." Sherlock was asking of him, what from any other person, sounded like a confidence of complete faith. John decided not to take that lightly, but he thought about it. It would be difficult for him because he, in spite of all the times he had given in to frustration with Sherlock and vented at the detective, did not like to sound whiney or emotionally delicate himself. And bringing to light all the perceived social insensitivities Sherlock committed might make John sound more like a shrew. He had no doubt there would be arguments over what constituted "insensitive" and what did not.

Still, John nodded again. "I can try."

Sherlock returned the nod, not certain what to make of the shocked, then careful expressions that John had displayed. "I... suppose I should also request, if possible, that you not take offense if it appears that I'm disregarding your advice. Pains have been made to tutor me before, and... well." It was obvious how that had turned out; Sherlock didn't care about some social boundaries, and he tended to forget others that seemed trivial or that he couldn't understand.

Part of it was that human interaction seemed to hinge largely on empathy and emotional connection. His difficulty with the two had resulted in no small amount of drama and pain in his younger years, leading him to search for an explanation to the problem. Sociopathy had seemed to be the closest fit to the root cause, and it had been easily accepted by others when it was offered as justification.

John studied Sherlock carefully. His cool, clinical countenance seemed to be sincere, and that calmed John somewhat. Perhaps he was the one being too emotional here. But wasn't that usually the problem?

"I foresee that happening a lot." John tried a modest smile, a small gesture to show Sherlock that he wasn't offended. "I'll do my best." And, if he did get offended, he'd at least do his best to explain why he was offended. …instead of walking out as he often did. …which made dealing with Sherlock much easier. 

This could be difficult.

Sherlock's eyes were clear and hopeful, if John were to guess at the emotion behind them. When Sherlock fixed that look on him, it was hard not to try to do what he could.

Sherlock smiled in relief, knowing John would do his best to stick to his word. Perhaps he could actually process some of the tips he was given if John was the originator. Sherlock had never had any luck with it before - he'd had nothing but arrogant contempt for the therapists Mummy had quietly hired on the side, and Mycroft...

Things never went well when Mycroft was involved. If anything, he was more stifling and manipulative than Mummy. Sherlock's expression darkened, his eyes becoming distant as he considered the fact that, even now, his independence was almost a ruse. He could avoid Mycroft's cameras and spies for a while, step over the line of the law... but only so far. His brother wouldn't hesitate to take him into private custody again if he felt Sherlock was straying overmuch.

John frowned. 

Sherlock had gone distant again, the eyes that had been focused on John now rested somewhere over his shoulder. Sometimes he would find Sherlock with that look when he came into the room, and often Sherlock didn't react to his presence when this happened. It didn't usually happen during one of their conversations though, and especially not in such close proximity to one another.

John bit his lower lip, wondering if there was anything he could do. He had one idea, but he remembered Sherlock's abrupt pull away from him over the popcorn… He didn’t want that to happen again, but perhaps Sherlock had only been startled then. John turned in his chair, reached out, and touched the sleeve of Sherlock's cuff.

A subtle tug near his wrist broke him away from old memories. Sherlock's frown eased as he turned his gaze toward the sensation, only to find John's hand grasping a bit of his shirt. He followed that limb to its source, taking in the worried light in his colleague's eyes. "...yes? Is something wrong?" Surely not. Hadn't he just been smiling a moment ago?

"Just lost you for a minute there."

The severity of Sherlock's expression had shifted back into something more neutral. The corner of John's mouth turned up as he realized Sherlock hadn't known he was tuning the world out.

John let go and turned back to his laptop. "I've never asked you before…. Is there any case in particular _you'd_ like me to write about?"

"You mean older cases, before you knew me." That was tricky business. Certainly there were a number of cases to choose from, but there were particular moments that he wasn't keen on discussing.

John would eventually ask about how he came to his arrangement with Lestrade. It was inevitable, especially if he wanted to write about his older work. Sherlock turned and retreated to the couch, suddenly wanting to put some distance between the two of them should the subject come up.

"Hm, yes. Anything really. Of course, I would be mostly using your words for one of those…." John thought that might be too tedious for Sherlock, sitting with him and recounting past cases while John took notes, but it seemed Sherlock was thinking the matter over.

John did have to admit he was curious about Sherlock's life before him. As far as he could tell, however, Sherlock hadn't gone out of his way to change many of his habits since John had arrived. He imagined Sherlock going about his days solving cases much in the same way he did presently.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and allowed his eyes to defocus, pondering which cases he could safely give John to keep him occupied. "A lot of them showed promise at the beginning but ended up being very straightforward to solve. I'm not sure you'll have enough material to spin a story of your usual length on your blog."

John quirked an eyebrow. "You didn't find many interesting cases before we met?" He knew Sherlock went through long dry spells when nothing caught his attention, but he found that hard to believe. "How _ever_ did you manage?"

On second thought, he didn't know how long Sherlock had been in the profession of "consulting detective". Maybe he hadn't been at it as long as John thought he had. He'd just assumed, from Sherlock's enthusiasm and lack of information to suggest otherwise, that Sherlock had been carrying on like this for most of his adult life.

"Don't tell me you had a day job taking up all your time…?"

"Not exactly, no." Sherlock paused, considering his words. "I haven't been doing what I currently do for very long, so there are only so many cases to choose from. I can't talk about a couple of them, as they officially didn’t happen." Mycroft's words. "A few others were intriguing but had solutions that became quickly apparent, so there wasn't much of a game to be had. There are a couple of unsolved cases that I looked at briefly, but they're years old and missing key components needed to piece things together. I don't really want to have you expound on problems I haven't been able to solve, if it's all the same to you."

John was nodding along. "Alright. Understandable." He pursed his lips together in thought. "Maybe something along the lines of how you got started then? Because I can barely imagine you doing anything else. I figured you'd been solving crimes since _primary_ school." He laughed, wanting to lighten the mood.

Sherlock had known the question was coming but tensed all the same, becoming withdrawn as his mood darkened. "Something like that. I was fascinated by crime reports during my childhood, to the point that I followed along as cases progressed, cataloguing the evidence as it was released to the public. I tried to contribute ideas a few times, but nobody would listen. Like with the Carl Power's case."

John perked up. "Which case was that?"

Sherlock looked about as open as he ever became when revealing details about himself, which was barely at all. Still, John wondered if he should open a new document, ready to take notes, since Sherlock seemed to be going along with his questioning anyway. He couldn't tell whether Sherlock was just naturally private, or if confessing personal details was something that truly bothered him.

"It was one of the first cases I seriously tried to get involved with. I was in primary school, actually," he admitted, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a soft smile for a moment at the memory.

"Carl Powers was a young boy from Brighton, the champion swimmer in 1989. By all accounts he was a decent person, no real known enemies other than the usual school rivalry nonsense. One day he had a sudden fit in the water and drowned, right in the middle of a swim. They did tests on the body and couldn't determine what might have caused the seizure, but the police didn't seem to think that there was anything suspicious about the death."

Sherlock's eyes darkened again, going distant as his mind turned over key moments. "I tried to tell them that something was odd. It was his belongings in the locker room. Carl didn't have a habit of going barefoot as far as anyone could recall, but when they opened his locker all of his street clothes were there... except his shoes. Nobody ever found them."

John's eyebrows rose. Sherlock _had_ had this gift for detail his whole life. John could only imagine what that must have been like growing up. With a brother like Mycroft, he could assume that the intensity ran in the Holmes family. He wondered what people like their teachers had thought of them, and what their parents could have been like.

John gazed at the man on the couch, long limbs taking up whatever space they could find, and tried to imagine the scene he had made back then. A boy half the size of the officers he went to see, probably in person knowing Sherlock and with all of Sherlock's arrogant, commanding presence…who tried to tell them they had a case on their hands.

"What do you think happened to him?"

"I think he was murdered. Possibly by a rival athlete who was bitter about Carl’s victory. Possibly by a schoolmate who was slighted in some minor, forgettable way whom nobody knew about or recalled when the police were investigating."

"Lestrade let me look over the case files awhile back in return for a favor." Sherlock hoped John wouldn’t ask what kind. "There wasn't much to be gleaned from it, unfortunately, so I'm missing some of the pieces to determine exactly _how_ it happened, and no tissue samples were preserved from the autopsy. I can't prove it without the evidence, but I think there's a possibility he was subtly poisoned. There was nothing else of value taken from Power's locker, not even his wallet. Just the shoes. They may have been removed as a trophy, or perhaps they contained incriminating evidence."

John was a little let down to have to file this one away under "unsolved cases". He would have liked to write about it: "Sherlock's First Time"…er, "First Case". He mentally slapped himself for the innuendo.

"You don't think it was an adult?" John imagined murder in the water and without a trace left behind would be a difficult feat for someone near Carl's age. It must be frustrating for Sherlock, his first investigation still unsolved.

"No, not according to the video surveillance and police interviews. His coach came up clean, as did his parents, their neighbors, and the parents of his friends. Another adult would have drawn suspicion, especially loitering around a young boys' locker room they had no right to be near. Other schoolchildren would pass without notice, especially if they also had an excuse to be in the locker room or were seen there regularly."

The problem was that, even narrowed down in such a fashion, there were a lot of possible suspects. Without a clear idea of the motive or the method used in the killing, there was little chance of determining who it had been now. Whoever it was, they hadn't let any clues drop since.

"Even after all that, huh…" John wondered whether the police files had been on par with his own findings when he'd been only a boy. "Does Lestrade always let you look through old files so his division can get the credit when you solve them?" John gave him a wry smile.

"No, actually. Despite our current arrangement, it took him some time to... warm up to me, I suppose you would put it." Sherlock's gaze fixed on John's smile, refusing to meet his flatmate's eyes. It was a poor obfuscation tactic, probably transparent, but what he'd said was true; Lestrade and his coworkers had only started to work with him out of a combination of desperation and political arm-twisting.

"Can't _imagine_ why…." John started, but trailed off when he noticed Sherlock's sour expression. It struck him then that there was more to it than that. Had something other than Sherlock's general contemptuousness on their investigative abilities put off Lestrade? John tried to meet his eyes, searching Sherlock's face and coming up short of explanation. "…what?"

"Nothing." 

John's brow furrowed at the obvious lie and Sherlock sighed.

"I made a poor first impression and it took a great deal of effort to overcome that." If Sherlock hadn't been as good at solving cases for them as he was it probably never would have been overcome, political pressure or no. Even now, Lestrade was the only one who'd started to relax a little; Donovan and Anderson doubtless would prefer him behind bars.

Sherlock's explanation didn't make it any clearer. Now John had all sorts of scenarios running through his head as to what Sherlock could have possibly done to make Donovan call him Freak every time she laid eyes on him, not to mention trying to get John to leave him every time they saw her. That was a bit harsh by any standard even if Sherlock was nearly preternatural in his ability to form conclusions based on such limited data.

"Just how bad was it?"

Sherlock's expression became even more guarded, his sudden unnatural stillness a dead giveaway that he was uncomfortable with the topic. "Very. Enough that it took a number of cases to convince them that I wasn't solving them through dumb luck or insidious hidden connections to the criminals themselves. I think, even now, only Lestrade's been convinced otherwise; Donovan and Anderson probably think I'm hiding a pile of murder victims in a sewer somewhere."

Sherlock blinked, reassessing his statement. "...the answer is no, for your information. They didn't meet me as a possible murder suspect."

John closed his mouth. Sherlock had read his mind, again. That would have made sense though, that they were wary of someone coming in and claiming to be able to solve any crime if only given access to the scene, and then following through with those claims. It would have made John suspicious too, had he not worked alongside Sherlock every step of the way multiple times.

Judging from Sherlock's demeanor, John could tell his questions were not leading anywhere good. And still, Sherlock was submitting to them. John wasn't sure whether he should follow through. He paused, deciding. "…what, then?"

"You remember the first case that we worked, when we returned to find Lestrade's team ransacking the flat? You didn't believe the reason that they gave because it made no sense to you. It clashed with your first impression of me and the limited experiences you had had afterwards."

Sherlock didn't know why he was telling John even this much. The man was his flatmate and colleague, not... well, whatever other position that would be justified in demanding his whole life story. Even blood family didn't know _everything_ that had happened to him, although he was certain Mycroft had made some educated guesses.

The furrow of John's eyebrows deepened, and then they rose by a fraction. "Narcotics?" Sherlock had admitted as much then when John had been dumbfounded. "It was that bad?" He hadn't thought much about that piece of information since. Certainly he'd thought that if Sherlock had used substances, he'd done so in moderation.

Sherlock found that he couldn't verbally respond, an odd feeling twisting inside him. He desperately tried to press it down, willing it to subside. He couldn't meet John's gaze.

His flatmate was still waiting patiently for an answer. Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly, then nodded; it would have to suffice.

Silence hung between them. 

Although the concern written over John's features did not lessen, his eyes softened. He wished he could comfort Sherlock with only a look because he didn't rightly know how to comfort someone like Sherlock at all, much less what to say to an admission like that.

He had grown up with Harry's drinking problem. That was something he hadn't needed to be told. And she was his sister, and it was utterly different.

John could hardly imagine what Sherlock must have been like. But…the man on the couch in front of him wore nicotine patches like they were going out of style and to John's knowledge had been completely clean the entire time they'd known one another. He took a breath and nodded in return. "Well. It looks to me like you've proven their assumptions of you wrong by now."

A sharp, breathy laugh escaped Sherlock, surprising even him. "Evidently." Even if the rest of the department never warmed up to him, Lestrade's acceptance was enough.

Gathering himself together, Sherlock finally raised his eyes to meet John's gaze. He was profoundly relieved not to see a hint of pity or disgust in his flatmate's expression. "You'll have to forgive me, John. There are periods of my life that I don't wish to revisit. I prefer to concentrate on the present."

"Alright then. That's fine." John could respect that.

He decided to shelve the idea of writing on Sherlock's investigations prior to their meeting. The blog would remain firmly in John's own perspective, offering Sherlock that small margin of detachment from the public.

"Think you could use a cup of tea?"

"Yes," Sherlock readily agreed.

John was really quite expressive, both facially and in terms of body language; he'd understood what he'd been told and was pointedly withdrawing the topic. Tea was, evidently, the unvoiced apology for asking unwanted questions. There was a measure of consideration in that, more than simply going through the expected motions. John actually cared on some level, in the manner of a friend.

Sherlock’s only friend. Not that he was going to admit that to John.

The sandy haired man rose, and a minute later the sounds of water running in the kitchen evidenced that they were out of clean dishes and that John was forced to wash a pair of cups. He stood in the doorway when he was finished and the tea was brewing, just leaning against the wall and waiting.

An unusual sense of affection for the dark man curled into the couch cultivated in John’s chest. He suspected it had something to do with Sherlock's unexpected confidence in him, and he allowed himself to enjoy it.

Sherlock knew that people had a tendency to feel uneasy when stared at, but he rarely bothered with following that social convention unless he was working on a case. Without the worry that he was going to be asked more questions about his past, Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and examined John's silhouette. The relaxed lines were somehow reassuring; it was nice to have someone who was comfortable around him, rather than always uneasy, angry, or on-guard.

When the sound of the pot reaching a boil called John away, he returned with two steaming cups. One was placed at Sherlock's side of the coffee table between them, and John sat back in his chair with the other. He took a sip, and allowed the hint of sweetness to mix with the distinctive boldness of the tea.

It was a moment of serenity in the flat of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and a rare thing, but one that indeed happened on occasion.

Sherlock enjoyed his tea in companionable silence. It was one of the many things he enjoyed about his flatmate - that he wasn't afraid of the quiet, didn't have to constantly make small talk or fill the atmosphere with meaningless noise. They could simply sit here, like this, enjoying a warm drink and a friendly presence in the room beside them.

The detective finished his mug before John did. He left it on the table, retreating to the bathroom.

A few minutes passed, the sound of tap water ceasing as one door creaked open, then another. "...Goodnight, John," Sherlock said, almost too quiet for John to hear, shutting the door without waiting for him to reply.

John paused, about to take a sip. His eyes closed. Warmth spread through him that had nothing at all to do with the mug in his hands. A small smile stretched across his mouth. " _Good night, Sherlock,_ " he whispered into his tea.

-

Sherlock's cell phone rang bright and early the next morning, resulting in a chaotic series of thumps and crashes in the downstairs bedroom. The prospect of a case launched him into a flurry of activity, shouting up the stairwell at John as he ducked into the bathroom to shower as quickly as he could manage.

Upstairs, John cracked an eye open from the cozy ball of blankets and pillow he had curled himself into last night. He knew those sounds. He knew exactly what they meant, and he wasn't sure if the tingling sensation that pooled in his gut was excitement at the prospect of finally having a reprieve from this funk Sherlock had been in for so long, or fear that he would soon be pulled out of bed.

He curled himself in tighter, one eye still open and wary on the door.

The rattling of the pipes ceased, and footsteps trampled up the stairs a few minutes afterwards. Sherlock invaded the room without so much as knocking, still somewhat damp from the shower and working at buttoning his shirt.

"John! There's no time for that! Get up, we have to be at the scene in 20 minutes' time!" The detective spared a moment from his efforts at dressing to latch onto the duvet, pulling on it to spur his colleague into wakefulness.

The other side of the cover was tugged over a head of tawny hair, further cocooning Sherlock's flatmate as he attempted to hold on. A sound that could have been a muffled "Noooooo" whined through the blanket. Childhood memories fighting with Harry in the morning flashed through John's mind and he held on tighter, hooking his ankles around the bottom of the blanket to further secure it.

Sherlock's mouth set in a stubborn line and he redoubled his efforts. It soon became apparent that he'd have to pry his flatmate's hold loose or destroy the duvet to achieve his goal. He opted to try the former first.

"John," he growled, crawling partially onto the bed and grabbing on the top edge of the cover. "No time. Up, now." He struggled against fingers clinging tightly to the fabric, trying to forcibly uncurl them. It was absurd, like trying to take a favorite toy away from a resisting child.

The situation quickly deteriorated. 

Either way, John's comfortable position had been disturbed beyond the point of return, but he wasn't going to give up without a fight. 

He had been ready as soon as he felt the extra weight press into the mattress. Sherlock was going to be persistent, but John had played this game before. Quickly, he loosened the hold of one hand and jabbed through the blanket, aiming blindly for Sherlock's ribs.

Sherlock's focus had been firmly at the problem at hand, the strike taking him completely off-guard. He dropped off the side of the bed with a startled grunt, landing in a heap on the floor.

"...you're not coming, then?" Sherlock pressed a hand to his side, his mouth twisting in displeasure. That had been uncalled for.

The twisted roll of bedsheets stilled for one drawn out moment, then was thrown back to reveal a very tousled looking John. The duvet settled about his shoulders like a shawl. He gave Sherlock a squinty look and wiped the corner of one eye.

" _Alright._ I'm up. Make us some coffee and I'll be down in ten," he grumbled and pulled himself free of the tangled mess with some effort.

Sherlock rolled over and got to his feet, satisfied that John was awake even if he'd gotten bruised for his troubles. Leaving John to his morning routine, he finished buttoning his shirt on the way to the kitchen. Some rummaging in the cupboards revealed filters and a small packet of ground coffee.

Somehow his chemistry knowledge never translated to good cooking, but that was likely due to the fact that he quickly lost interest in the middle of the process. Measuring grounds and filling a machine with water, however, was an achievable culinary goal.

John came down and headed straight for the bathroom. He was brushing his teeth and listening to Sherlock puttering about in the kitchen. "Memember do rinthe ouw the fot!" he shouted, not finding it difficult to imagine Sherlock combining yesterday's coffee with today's, then spit into the sink.

Five minutes later he'd gone back upstairs and down again and was dressed but for his socks, which he stopped to pull on at the bottom of the staircase. "So what's the news on this one? Call from Lestrade?"

"Yes. A suspicious death near Peckham. Staged to look like a suicide, but could easily be murder." Sherlock glared at the coffee pot, willing it to brew faster. He already had the travel mugs out, not wanting to wait another moment to get on the road.

"I'm told a chainsaw was involved. Hopefully I don't have to worry about your stomach. I've assumed thus far, given that you were an army doctor, that you've had some exposure to such things."

John frowned in distaste, but finished pulling himself together and joined Sherlock in the kitchen. "You needn't worry about me." He took one of the cups from Sherlock and wondered how exactly a chainsaw could have been used in a "suicide".

Although experienced in matters of the human body in parts or in full, John found that there was a distinct difference between bodies during surgery or killed during wartime and those that had undergone extreme torture. It was true that, for him, even though the outcome was the same, the latter was significantly more grotesque. He could only imagine the pain and fright involved.

It wouldn't do to let himself over-think the matter before they even arrived at the scene, however, and once the coffee had brewed, they topped off their mugs and set off.

Sherlock quickly flagged down a cab and gave the address he had been texted. The back seat fairly hummed with manic energy; Sherlock was wound tight as a spring, just waiting to latch onto the puzzle he'd been given and tear it apart with a calculating eye.

The man really seemed to live for this sort of excitement. One corner of his mouth was pulled up into a smile as he watched London rush by out the window, the cab taking them into the dodgy neighborhoods south of the river.

John by contrast remained outwardly calm with his gaze on Sherlock most of the way. Watching Sherlock was sometimes like watching an animal. Energy thrummed through him and sparked into John by the mere coincidence of him sitting too close. Sherlock might have been one of those physics machines showcased in science museums, a Van de Graff generator, and John could feel the electricity prickling across his skin. He found himself with a small smile to match Sherlock's as he watched the other man stare out the window.

Who knew what their driver thought, probably any number of things, and John didn't care, especially after he exclaimed, "That'll be it," when they finally turned a corner and saw an array of police cars.

The cab dropped them off beside the police barrier, which covered a surprisingly large swathe of territory. The building that contained the crime scene was one of several decrepit complexes that contained flats for let... or had. A posted billboard to one side announced in bold letters that the buildings were due to be demolished, with new and affordable housing to replace them.

Sherlock handed the cabbie a couple of notes from his wallet and ducked around the barrier. Apparently they were expected; Donovan was having a loud argument with Lestrade right outside the building's foyer.

"-can't just ring him up and have him crawl all over every case we get that's the slightest bit complex! You're affecting our careers, sir. And what about when the day finally comes, when you invite the culprit back to his own crime scene? I wouldn't put it past him to frame someone else f-"

"Charming as ever, Donovan. What is it that I've supposedly done this time?" The shorter police officer broke off her rant to turn and fix Sherlock with a suspicious look, not the least bit embarrassed that she'd been overheard. The sergeant made no attempts to hide the fact that she didn't trust Sherlock one bit and liked him even less.

"Go upstairs and have a look for yourself. Don't muss up the crime scene," she snapped, giving John a sharp look as well. She seemed to have decided that John had made a bad decision and sided with the wrong team.

She received a stony glance in return as they passed and John followed Sherlock inside. He remembered what Sherlock had revealed last night about their meeting and John felt far less inclined to humor her than he had in the past. She had apparently made up her mind about his friend, even though Sherlock had obviously straightened himself out since whatever she had seen back then. 

John believed in second chances. He didn't believe in people who didn't give them.

And then there was Lestrade, who had a hand pressed to the bridge of his nose in exasperation, who’d finally caught John's gaze and pulled himself back into a more professional stance.

"Sherlock mentioned something about a possible 'suicide' and a chainsaw…?" John asked.

"Yes, it's a mess up there, and... well, it's been difficult gathering evidence so far. There was a lot of spatter, and we've got a technician trying to analyze the patterns to see if there are any holes where a suspect might have been standing."

Lestrade walked John in to the small forensics station, gesturing for him to put on protective gear. Sherlock was already bounding up the stairs, sans coat and with gloves and foot coverings for once; apparently he didn't want to ruin his expensive clothing.

"The victim was sitting, leaning over a table, and doesn't appear to have put up a fight before the fatal injury. There's no evidence that he was restrained in any way. A chainsaw was set up to drop with a timer. It could have been a suicide, but it's more than a little dramatic - people who want to kill themselves generally take an easy way out. They don't construct death traps and leave cryptic notes in their pocket."

John's eyebrows rose at that. "Cryptic notes?" He took off his jacket and awkwardly began pulling on the plastic gear; when Greg said "mess", he usually meant it. "What kind of notes?" He finished quickly with gloves and safety glasses, feeling a bit like he was walking into a biohazard zone. On second thought, that wasn't out of the realm of possibility. John knew very well the kinds of pathogens they could find in blood, and with cases Sherlock deemed "interesting", one could never be too careful.

"We found a folded note in a plastic bag in the victim's pocket. The paper looks very old and fragile, although we'll have to run it through the lab to confirm it isn't just modern stock put through an antiquing process. It's some sort of eerie handwritten poem in French, with portions underlined. Between the unusual manner of death and the fact that people don't normally leave old scraps of poetry in their pocket when they go, we want to make certain we look at every possibility before labeling this a suicide. Especially after the Pink case," Lestrade muttered.

"I'm sure Sherlock will want to take a look at that." John understood the detective's stance. He'd been through that case, too. "Appreciate you calling us out on this one," he added because he thought someone should, and Greg was being very frank and open with him even though he wasn't Sherlock. People did get the idea that approaching John was a way of indirectly approaching Sherlock; John would play the messenger and their intelligence wouldn't be insulted right away.

They could hear Sherlock moving around upstairs. The walls weren’t thick enough to contain that energy of his.   
"Alright," John said, looking up at the ceiling, "let's see what he's up to."

"Right." Greg huffed out a breath, steeling himself for another walk through the room. Even when one got desensitized to these things after a steady stream of cases, saw a parade of evidence that human beings could do terrible things to each other... it gradually wore a person down. Greg wasn't the eager bobbie he'd been years ago.

They ascended the stairs together and spotted Sherlock through the doorway. The detective had borrowed a metal stepladder from someone and was examining the triggering device that had lowered the chainsaw. "Watch your step," he cautioned, more for John's sake than Lestrade's.

John looked down. The floor was covered in the spray. He wasn't sure how Sherlock had managed to get the ladder into position. Carefully he picked his way through the room, the smell getting steadily more pungent, until he reached Sherlock's side. He studied the body still in place at the table, indeed a gruesome sight. The saw had cut cleanly enough, but did so a little high, hitting just below the base of the skull. John grimaced, catching sight of grey tissue there. No one could have sat still underneath that contraption while it lowered, not unless he was unconscious in the first place.

"Who was he?"

"Look at his boots, the calluses on his fingers. He was a laborer, someone who worked with his hands. Either a contractor or light industrial. Clothes are well cared for but stained and old, so someone hit badly by the recent economy. It's likely he lived nearby, perhaps even in this building."

Sherlock dug into a pocket and snapped open his viewing glass, examining the timer more closely. "Either he or his possible assailant knew the area was due for demolition, would be vacant and, given the area and the tight budgets for construction jobs these days, without a lot of security. No cameras."

"There's an indentation on his left hand where a ring is missing - either stolen or he had marriage problems. Was his wallet found intact?" Greg nodded, knowing better than to try to interrupt Sherlock when he was on a roll. "The latter, then. He might have pawned it, given his monetary problems. Either one of those, much less the combined, might serve for a suicide motivation, but you still haven't shown me the note you mentioned, and I doubt this fellow was clever enough to rig this up by himself."

It was always a bit startling when Sherlock did that. 

He might one day divine the existence of God out of the shape of the clouds rolling under the sky. John knew he was still in awe over it, no matter how often he witnessed it.

Without an ID, they would have to take a photograph of the head and canvass the area on Sherlock's assumption that he might have been a former tenant. That was an unpleasant thought.

Greg presented the small, plastic bag he'd mentioned to John and handed it up to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned his attention from the chainsaw's rigging, tucked his viewing glass back into his pocket, and accepted the bag. Its contents appeared to be a single piece of yellowed paper, filled with spidery black handwriting and folded over until it was small enough to fit.

Sherlock stepped down from the ladder and delicately pulled it out. A frown gradually touched his features as he read. "...this is Rimbaud," he stated, surprise coloring his tone.

Greg and John stood as still as they had been previously, watching Sherlock. "Sorry, it's what?" Confusion laced Greg's tone.

"The poem?" John asked. "You recognize it?" He leaned around Sherlock's hand, mindful of where he was stepping, to get a look. As Greg had said, it was penned in French and John could only recognize a word or two. "What does it say?"

Sherlock held it up and began reading aloud.

_"Qu'est-ce pour nous, mon coeur, que les nappes de sang_  
Et de braise, et mille meurtres, et les longs cris  
De rage, sanglots de tout enfer renversant  
Tout ordre ; et L'Aquilon encor sur les débris ; 

Et toute vengeance ? Rien !... - Mais si, toute encor,  
Nous la voulons ! Industriels, princes, sénats,  
Périssez ! puissance, justice, histoire, à bas !  
Ça nous est dû. Le sang ! le sang ! la flamme d'or !

Tout à la guerre, à la vengeance, à la terreur,  
Mon Esprit ! Tournons dans la morsure : Ah ! passez,  
Républiques de ce monde ! Des empereurs,  
Des régiments, des colons, des peuples, assez !

_Qui remuerait les tourbillons de feu furieux,_  
Que nous et ceux que nous nous imaginons frères ?  
À nous ! Romanesques amis : ça va nous plaire.  
Jamais nous ne travaillerons, ô flots de feux !

Europe, Asie, Amérique, disparaissez.  
Notre marche vengeresse a tout occupé,  
Cités et campagnes ! - Nous serons écrasés !  
Les volcans sauteront ! et l'Océan frappé...

_Oh ! mes amis ! - Mon coeur, c'est sûr, ils sont des frères :_  
Noirs inconnus, si nous allions ! allons ! allons !  
O malheur ! je me sens frémir, la vieille terre,  
Sur moi de plus en plus à vous ! la terre fond, 

_Ce n'est rien ! j'y suis ! j'y suis toujours."_

When Sherlock glanced up and saw confusion writ across both of their faces he rolled his eyes, repeating the verse in English.

_"What does it matter to us, my heart, the sheets of blood_  
And of red-hot coals, and a thousand murders, and long howls  
Of rage; sobbings from every inferno destroying  
Every (kind of) order; and still the North wind across the wreckage; 

And all the vengeance? Nothing!... - But still, yes  
We desire it! Industrialists, princes, senates,  
Perish! Power, justice, history: down!  
It is our due. Blood! blood! the golden flame!

All to war, to vengeance, to terror,  
My soul! Let us turn in the wound: Ah! away with you,  
Republics of this world! Of Emperors,  
Regiments, colonists, peoples, enough!

_Who should stir the vortices of furious flames_  
But we and those whom we imagine brothers?  
It's our turn, romantic friends: we are  
Going to enjoy it. Never shall we labour, O fiery waves

Europe, Asia, America - vanish!  
Our march of vengeance has occupied every place,  
Cities and countrysides! - We shall be smashed!  
The volcanoes will explode! And the Ocean, smitten...

_Oh! my friends! - My heart, it is certain; they are brothers;_  
Dark strangers, if we began! Come on! Come on!  
\- O evil fortune! I feel myself tremble, the old earth,  
On me who am more and more yours! the earth melts. 

_It is nothing: I am here; I am still here."_

"Certain lines are underlined, so either they meant something to the victim or this is a deliberate message from the murderer. Given that this piece appeared in A Season of Hell, which was a sort of extended book of poems written under a haze of absinthe and opium to his gay lover... I'm willing to bet on the latter."

"You're not going to tell me that's a love poem." Greg's face screwed up in offense. "Great, we've got a maniac on our hands who considers himself a romantic." He glances to the body. "Can't imagine it was addressed to this bloke."

John had to agree. The supposed industrial worker was not someone he could envision in a relationship involving French poems that only Sherlock could recognize. Any reason he could imagine the dead man carrying it would be a wild guess. "So, left by the killer, but probably not meant for the victim?" He imagined himself trying to think like Sherlock. "Gangs maybe?" Who would have staged a murder so shocking, where no one was meant to find it, yet left a note? "Sending a message to one another, and...the poem is the message?"

Sherlock's frown returned as he turned the paper over, then peered at the edges. "I don't know that the victim would have known anyone important enough to merit a letter this expensive. The writing is either Rimbaud's or a painstaking forgery, not photocopied, and the marks here along the edge show signs of being removed from a book with older bindings, like those found in the later 1800's. If it's part of an original folio it would have been exorbitantly expensive to obtain. I doubt the owner would want to mutilate such a rare copy for the sake of a petty vendetta or a love letter, however twisted."

Sherlock's gaze unfocused for a moment as a thought occurred to him.

The group waited, motionless, all eyes on the consulting detective. Greg's gaze flicked to John and they shared an unvoiced moment of confusion between them. The smell was getting to the both of them, and standing in that room was becoming more uncomfortable by the minute.

"What?" John broke the silence when it became clear that Sherlock was lost to them.

"I don't know how many handwritten editions of A Season in Hell there are," he murmured, coming back to life and turning the sheet over once more. "I thought I had the only one."

Which meant that either there was another rare edition of the tome nestled secretly in someone's private collection, or someone had broken into his flat without him noticing.

"You thought you had the only…." John echoed, staring at the paper for a moment before his eyes snapped up in shock as he caught on. "You mean, that's, that could be… _yours?_ " 

Greg seemed to come alive at that. "Is it?" he demanded. "Where did you keep this book?"

"The right hand bookcase in our flat, next to the other first editions and the forensics books. Since I haven't seen any signs that our flat has been broken into in the past few weeks, I didn't think it necessary to catalogue all the valuables."

The thought was disturbing, though. Had he missed something so vital?

"We need to check. At the very least, Lestrade, there cannot be many copies, and they would all be traceable through the rare book market. Handwritten volumes don't get sold without a paper trail."

"We're heading to Baker Street, _now_." Greg was suddenly all authority. "Bring that." He led the way downstairs at a hurried pace, meeting Donovan at the bottom step. She might have been going up or passing by; it was hard to tell how long she had been waiting there.

"Where are you all off to, then?" It wasn’t difficult to miss the note of condescension in her tone.

"I'll be in touch," he let her know, not sparing a moment as he marched them past her and out of the building.

Sherlock swept by Donovan without even acknowledging her existence, following Greg out to the street. He presumed Lestrade was going to give them a ride, which would spare the expense and bother of finding a cab.

Sherlock didn't say as much, but he appreciated the fact that Greg trusted him enough to not immediately spring for a warrant to comb through the entire flat. He could have easily gotten one, especially given what he'd told Greg at the scene. He'd earned a measure of trust with the DI and Greg had started treating him better, accordingly.

They found Greg's personal vehicle, unmarked though fitted with standard police equipment inside. John was glad they weren't sitting in the back of one of the squad cars. Nevertheless, the ride was tense all the way back.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's visible anxiety in turn made John anxious. He wasn't sure what they would find when they arrived. If the note had come from Sherlock's book, a rare and extremely valuable book, which he had been keeping on their _shelf_ , collecting dust, the someone would have had to come into their flat to take it. Mrs. Hudson could have been there, could have run into this person alone. The intruder could have done anything and John would have been none the wiser.

They finished the ride in silence, Sherlock so impatient that his mouth briefly twisted in frustration as they waited for Greg to let them out of the back. For all that it didn't look like a squad car, the doors still functioned the same way.

"Yes, you can come in," Sherlock stated flatly, interrupting Greg before he'd even uttered the question. Greg closed his mouth with a half-bemused, half-irritated expression. They both knew very well that he was only following procedure; if it was admitted in court that any evidence had been improperly found and processed, it could get an entire case dismissed on a technicality. That wasn't happening on Greg's watch.

Sherlock turned the key in the lock and let them all in, taking the stairs two at a time.

They must have caused quite a ruckus because Mrs. Hudson appeared at the bottom of the steps after them, shouting something about everything being alright.

"Yes, it's fine!" John called back down, not entirely sure if she heard him or not.

They trailed after Sherlock into the sitting room. John ignored the mess knowing Greg had seen it a hundred times already and didn’t bother to be ashamed since there was nothing to be done about it.

Sherlock immediately went to the bookcase to the right of the fireplace, scanning the shelf to see if the dust had recently been disturbed. Nothing. His copy was still there, seemingly untouched.

Grabbing the leather bound volume, Sherlock pulled it down, turning the pages to reach the poem found at the scene. The detective paled almost imperceptibly. "...it's not here."

Unable to help himself, his gaze flickered around the room. Sherlock was profoundly disturbed that someone had been able to enter and leave the flat without attracting his notice.

John stared, mouth parted slightly. He went to look at the book in Sherlock's hands and, sure enough, there was a neatly separated piece missing.

"Has anything else been tampered with?" Greg asked, following Sherlock's gaze around the room. It truly was a mess in certain areas. He guessed those were designated spaces for Sherlock's projects as other areas of the flat were perfectly clean and orderly. The DI raised an eyebrow.

"I'd have to look," Sherlock replied, flipping through the book to see if any other pages had been taken. "They didn't even leave a mark in the dust on the shelf, so whoever it was, they were taking care not to draw attention to what they'd done." What else might have been disturbed? The hidden compartment he'd installed into the left window frame? The one in the armchair's leg? The locked chest in his bedroom?

Sherlock reached the end of the book and paused. There was new writing on the last blank page of the book, markedly different from that of its author.

Noticing Sherlock's hesitation, John peered over his shoulder. There, on the age discolored page in a thick black scrawl, were the letters:

**NDTAJUAW**

"I'm….going to take a wild guess and say that wasn't there before, was it?" John stood as still as Sherlock while Greg approached behind them to see what the matter was.

"That mean anything to you?" the inspector asked, tone much firmer than John's had been.

"Nothing, although obviously it's some sort of code. It might mean something once it's deciphered," Sherlock replied smoothly. He was a bit put out by the subtle shift in Lestrade's attitude that indicated the DI thought he was more deeply involved than he was admitting.

Perhaps he _was_ more deeply involved, but he had no way of knowing that yet.

"John, go get a plastic bag from the kitchen. I doubt the perpetrator was foolish enough to leave prints, but we need to check it regardless." Sherlock eyed Greg, certain that he was going to try to confiscate the book as evidence. _His_ book, worth as much as a high-end house, which had already endured a mild defacing and page removal. God only knew what Scotland Yard would do to it.

John went for the requested item without protest, leaving Greg and Sherlock to examine the book.

"Don't look at me like that," Greg said, noticing Sherlock's evil eye and the mild tension in his body language. "You keep that book on that dusty old shelf?"

John came back with a large, clear plastic bag, and with an apologetic glance to Sherlock, held it open.

"I don't keep anything locked up, not even the Stradivarius. You didn't notice that I don't have a safe the last time you ransacked the place?" Sherlock set the tome carefully into the bag, letting John take care of it while he went back to the bookcase.

Nothing else looked out of place, and a quick search found nothing hidden behind the other books.

Someone, who knew he worked with the police and that he had that specific book... had broken into the flat specifically to plant a coded message and simultaneously tie him to the murder scene. And chosen an oddly specific poem to highlight as the message. One that mentioned brothers, but it was a bit of a stretch at this point to assume that that meant Mycroft was going to be dragged into this.

John looked hard at his flatmate. "Wait. Wait. Your violin is a Stradivarius? Are you serious?" Even he recognized the famous name.

He was promptly ignored as Greg cut in. "Yes, I know. And we'll take care of it, I assure you. If we find anything on it, I'll let you know. Either way, you'll get it back." He took the book from John, now packed neatly into the sealed bag. With a sigh and a look around the room, he added, "Let me know if you find anything else out of order. They could go over my head with a warrant here."

"I'll let you know." God, Sherlock was angry. The case was exciting, but suddenly too personal, invading his home and his belongings and unraveling the edges of all the hard work it had taken to get Lestrade to trust him and let him in. All those favors he still owed Mycroft for pulling so many strings.

"Keep me updated on the results from the lab, and the identity of the victim. We're dealing with a homicide, not a suicide."

"I will," Greg said solemnly. "Best be off then. And…warn your landlady about unexpected visitors. Just…let her know to keep an eye out." He'd met Mrs. Hudson a few times. She was always very polite, even while his team was searching through her tenant's things. He liked her. 

With a parting nod to John, Greg left the two of them to deal with the repercussions of the day's discovery.

John heaved a great sigh once they were alone. He worried his lip and looked to Sherlock. "So, this is personal then."

"Evidently. They didn't steal anything of value, so money isn't the point." Something else - reputation? That seemed likely. Old enemies, if they were even still around, wouldn't have been this subtle.

Sherlock's fingers twitched. He wanted to check all of his hidden spaces, just to see if anything else had been taken or left behind... but he didn't want John to know where they were, much less see the contents of each. John might be his partner in his work and, for all current intents and purposes, in his daily life, but he was not entitled to know all of his secrets.

John raked his hands through his short hair and over his face, trying to work out some of the tension that had been plaguing him. He was wired. He needed to calm down. There was nothing left for him to do now and if he let himself go on like this, he would remain this way all day.

John went to the kitchen and turned on the faucet, tossing in dirty dishes to soak, and started brewing a pot of tea while he worked. "What do you think the poem meant?" he called from the kitchen. 

A lie, or the truth? That book, out of all of the ones on his shelf... The murderer knew what Sherlock owned, from purchase records or scouting the flat or both, and he'd chosen the author and poem with care. There wasn't any doubt about that.

"...I think it's a love poem from an admirer."

John paused, scrubbing the dishes. An admirer. "Of course it would be." Suddenly, he was annoyed. Was he the only one in the world who saw Sherlock's human side? Granted, he didn't see it _often_. He scrubbed harder. "You should let them know to come back on Valentine's. They're about four months off."

"I'd rather they not come back, lest I find some poor sod's heart in a box on the doorstep." Really, there were better ways to try to gain his attention than decapitating a man with a chainsaw.

"It makes a certain amount of sense, really. Whoever it is, they know that I work with the police and that I only take unusual cases. They arrange for an interesting case, planting a very specific poem from a very specific book that only I own, from a poetic prodigy to his gay lover. It's not a very traditional gesture, but sending your own rare copy of 'What does it matter to us, my heart...' back to a murder detective seems to have struck him as more appropriate than a bouquet of flowers. I'm assuming _him_ , given as it's statistically more likely, especially so given his choice of poet."

"Well that's just psychotic," John bit out, followed by the clatter of plates crashing to the floor and then John's cursing. "Add that to his list of statistically likely traits." The tap stopped running and the sounds of sweeping replaced it. Finally, John stalked out and tossed the pieces into the dustbin, glaring at it like it personally offended him.

He didn't like this idea of Sherlock's that some _psychotic_ male admirer had broken into _their_ flat to leave Sherlock love notes. 

"Well, that's a given. Few other people would think a headless body would make the target more likely to accept the advances."

John wasn't usually this clumsy. Murder cases didn't normally seem to bother him to this degree either, although Sherlock hadn't had a large sample size to examine yet. That meant that either the sense of violation was getting to him, as it had with Sherlock or... John was upset by what he'd just said. "You don't have to take it out on the dishware."

John turned his offended gaze to Sherlock instead. "When we catch him, you should mention that." He stalked over to his chair, first inspecting it as though he might find it had been tampered with before sitting down and pulling his laptop over from the coffee table. He kicked his feet up on the stool and sat quietly for a minute, engrossed in the computer. Then, with a huff, he changed positions, shoving the stool out of the way and planting his feet on the ground, stabbing at the mousepad with his thumb. "Can't…bloody…connect."

Sherlock eyed John warily, uncertain exactly why he was this upset. It was logical to feel angry and paranoid since the illusion of safety and privacy had been shattered, but John seemed fixated instead on the fact that the killer was sending odd messages to him. He'd observed the small signs that showed John found him attractive on some level or another, but this seemed to indicate possessiveness.

He probably should be feeling alarmed, but... it was John. John, who gave him space when he needed it and didn't overcomplicate matters. It would be fine.

"We should check the rest of the flat to be certain the book was all that was tampered with," Sherlock finally said, deciding to avoid addressing John's mood. It was safer that way. He turned and headed through the kitchen hallway to his bedroom.

John watched him go, following with only his eyes. He considered, chewing his lower lip, then tossed the computer back down on the coffee table and stood up, looking around the room. He knew they would have to do this. He wanted to, yet he couldn't concentrate. He'd checked his browser's history. As far as he could tell, the computer hadn't been touched. But, as far as he could tell, nothing in the room had been touched. How was he supposed to know, comb through everything they owned? Yes, probably. With a groan of frustration, he decided to check his own room.

Sherlock carefully shut his door, as always, listening to the sounds of John taking the stairs. Everything looked untouched, but as the drawing room had proved, that meant nothing.

He stepped around the papers and books and miscellaneous items scattered on the floor, checking on the few things he actually cared about. The tiny container with a flash drive was still hidden in the air vent. The hidden drawer in the wardrobe, when opened, revealed that passports for several identities and a small stash of foreign monies were still intact.

Sherlock pried up the loose floorboard in the corner and retrieved a small puzzle box, pressing the indentations to open it.

There was nothing but padded lining. 

Sherlock's angry howl echoed down the hallway, followed by a thump as he threw the box at the wall in rage.

Upstairs, John froze in place. A cold chill ran down his spine and he spun about, not wasting a second in barreling down the staircase again, nearly clearing the whole thing in one leap. He tore through the apartment and crashed into Sherlock's door, swinging it wide. It slammed into the wall behind him, but he didn't notice. 

Sherlock stood in the corner, hunched in anger. John cast around the room for signs of danger, and found nothing. "What happened!?" he demanded, heart still in his throat, hand gripping the door frame.

Sherlock didn't move, one arm wrapped around himself while the other hid his face, his body language a mix of grief and rage. "Get out."

One person had already broken into his personal space and stolen something irreplaceable. Sherlock couldn't handle another intrusion. He didn't want John, _anyone_ , to see him like this. It was too much.

John flinched, but otherwise didn't move. His fingers tightened against the frame. The cold feeling of dread in his chest strengthened.

"Sherlock."

His voice came softly this time. The sight of Sherlock in such grievous pain was frightening. The adrenaline coursing through John made him hyper aware of the room and the physicality of its two occupants. Something had happened, he didn't know what, but Sherlock needed help. He stepped forward.

Sherlock's frame visibly tensed, bracing for a fight. His eyes opened, and the look he shot John from behind his fingers was completely alien. The man who was normally so detached, almost _cold_ , was drowning, staring at his flatmate like a caged animal about to snap.

"Get out." The words came out as a low growl. It was too much, and he had no way to take his rage out onto the thief, and _John wasn't supposed to be in here._

John froze mid-step. 

Never had he heard Sherlock sound like that before, not once. John couldn't move and suddenly his adrenaline was spiking for another reason, shifting his goal from protecting Sherlock to being marginally _frightened_ of Sherlock. His body shifted, instantly more compact, both feet planted in the ground. It was a military reaction, but he had enough sense to move backward as Sherlock demanded. He backed up until he was through the door again, not wanting to risk his voice setting the other man off.

Once in the hall, he turned and hurried back to the sitting room, still keeping an eye on the door until it was out of sight. He had half a mind to call Lestrade, but quickly decided against it. A moment of indecision had him looking between Sherlock's room and his keys lying on the kitchen table. 

Anxiety welled within him. He had to get out. John grabbed the keys and stalked out of the flat.

Sherlock waited, alert until he heard the front door open and close. It took effort to get his body to respond properly, leaving him with a stiff gait as he crossed the room and shut the door once again. The space of his world contracted, small and familiar.

He didn't know how to get rid of this feeling. He didn't even want to vent everything through music; he'd probably break the violin.

Sherlock forced himself to lie down on his bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling and trying not to think about how much he wished he'd kept all his drug stashes. He had an emergency kit,  
but... no. That wasn't a good idea. It would be too easy to fall into addiction again. He wasn't sure he'd be able to crawl out a second time.

Sherlock glanced around the room again, at the piles of papers and books, the acquired detritus of his new life in London. It occurred to him, finally, what was bothering him.

He felt unsafe. Even alone, locked away in a familiar setting, he felt unsafe... because the murderer had been here. It wasn't just a challenge, admiration from an enemy. It was too personal. It had gotten too close.

Sherlock rolled over, slid off the bed and stood. He padded to the door, hesitating, listening to the relative quiet of the flat. One never really escaped the sound of London traffic or the creaking and rattling of old buildings, but it was as silent as it could get.

He opened the door a crack, stared out through the slit, confirmed the hallway was empty and had to remind himself to breathe. Stepping out into the kitchen, he let his gaze travel over the paraphernalia - breathe, breathe. There was the knife block, the fridge with old notes stuck to the surface. The dustbin. Sherlock stepped on the little lever, observed the top opening, touched the dishes that had been broken such a short time ago. It seemed like ages, viewing time through a long tunnel.

Part of him realized that he must be in shock.

Sherlock eyed the kettle, then filled it and put it on to boil. Tea would be just the thing. Tea like his flatmate always made, habitual. Comforting.

Sherlock numbly watched the tea steep, trying to keep his thoughts from settling on recent events. It was easier said than done. The water gradually turned a rich brown and he briefly considered calling Mycroft... but no. No, he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction, let his brother see him embarrassingly compromised again, give him more tally marks on the balance sheet. Not to mention give him the perfect opportunity and excuse to increase the level of monitoring he already knew Mycroft had focused on him.

Finishing up the tea with some milk from the fridge, Sherlock hesitated. He didn't want to go back to his room, nor the drawing room. The kitchen, too, left him feeling vaguely exposed, trapped between those two spaces.

An idea came to him and, mug in hand, Sherlock climbed the stairs.

He shut himself into John's room, taking in the details and cradling his mug against his chest.

John was more of a minimalist than he was; the floor was clean, the bed made, everything put back in its proper place. Somehow John managed to do it without making the room feel cold and sterile - instead it seemed clean, simple, warm. He wondered how John put up with the rest of the flat, enduring the clutter and chaos with barely a grumble.

Sherlock reached down as he walked past the laundry hamper, snatching up an oatmeal-coloured jumper. Sitting on the edge of the bed and setting his cup on the nightstand, he draped the garment across his shoulders, letting the sleeves hang down over his chest. A deep breath brought a familiar scent and he was gradually feeling warmer. Perhaps there was something to the notion of a shock blanket after all.

Sherlock leaned sideways against the headboard, sipping at his tea and letting his mind go pleasantly blank.

After a long while, he finished his tea and left his empty mug on the nightstand. John's room felt secure enough, far enough removed from the realities of the break-in, that he didn’t want to leave. Eventually he stretched out on one side of the bed.

Between the warmth of the jumper, the comfort of the room, and the exhaustion that had settled into his bones after the raging emotions had finally left, Sherlock fell asleep. He hadn't even had time to consider what his flatmate's reaction might be to finding his room invaded.

* * *

Within five minutes of the time he’d left, John was three blocks down Baker Street with hands stiffly shoved into his jacket, walking at a brisk pace to keep the cold out. He didn't know where he was going. No, scratch that, he didn't know _which pub_ he was going to, and it didn't really matter. There were two within walking distance and either would be a fine place to just sit with a drink for a while. No date to impress tonight.

Down the street the black awning and warm, colorful light inside Zizzi caught his attention, and John slowed until he'd stopped in front of the door. He remembered what a good night they’d had there. Savory food, good conversation, and the unexpected treat of live music came flooding back to him. He reached out and opened the door, no longer interested in a nameless, lonely pub.

Inside, it was just as warm as it looked. He glanced around and was greeted by a waitress. 

No, he told her, it was just him tonight, and yes, a seat by the window would be just fine. And then, just as he was about to pull back the chair she had motioned to, someone waving farther down inside the restaurant caught his eye. John paused in surprise. 

It was Richard.

The man was smiling wide, greeting him, and John found a returning smile spring to his own face, unexpected, but not unwelcome. He didn't know how he could smile after everything, but it was there all the same. The actor extricated himself from a group of people having drinks spread across two tables they'd pushed together. He was heading toward John, and John found, to his surprise, that he didn't mind.

"You came back!" Richard exclaimed. "You must have liked the food after all."

"I did," John admitted. "And so did you, I see." He was surprised to see the actor here at all. John thought he'd gone out specifically to find a restaurant near their flat only to meet them. "This isn't out of the way for you?"

"Oh no, actually we've been going here for months now," An easy smile spread across Richard's features as he indicated the small group he'd left. "Well, for me it's a little out of the way, but some of the crew lives close and they like to let us out of the dungeon once in a while for a night out." He laughed and John found it was easy to laugh with him. Tension was already pouring out of his body in waves just by having someone nice to talk to. Richard seemed to notice he was still half in and half out of his chair, and sitting alone at that. "Come, sit with us." His hand landed on John's sleeve. "I promise not to rope you into anything tonight."

One corner of John's mouth turned up further, creating a slightly awkward, almost shy smile. He hadn’t been planning on this, but he wanted to anyway. "Alright. If you say so."

He was led across the restaurant to the small collection of crew members, three men and two women. John could not guess what their jobs were, but they apparently recognized him. One of the women looked up at him in surprise. She fell into an open mouthed smile. " _Oh my god_ , is this John?", she exclaimed with all the social flair of an actress.

"Yes, Sheryl, you know very well that this is John." Richard rolled his eyes at her as though it was nothing.

She rose from her chair to shake his hand while the rest of the table made room for an extra chair. He was welcomed warmly to their party, and after a stern warning from Richard, they lightened up on the not-so-subtle hints about how much they would like to work with him and Sherlock. Apparently, Richard had only pitched the detective series idea to the regular crew yesterday, and everyone was very excited. 

After introductions, John learned he was sitting with the director, two main actors including Richard, and the camera and lighting team.

"So," John began once he managed to get a word in, deciding it was absolutely imperative to his state of mind and health that he find out as soon as possible, "what are all of you having to drink?"

Four overly bubbly glasses of wine later, John was finally feeling at ease. Conversation revolved around him at first, but it soon evened out to a point where he could get to know everyone. Sheryl and Edward were the big talkers of the group, and Sheryl was in a tiff with her boyfriend, a topic that took up a good portion of the night. Eventually though, one by one they made their excuses and said goodbye. John was on his fifth glass of wine when he realized that only he, Sheryl and Richard remained, and Sheryl was picking up her things and already saying her own goodbyes, with an extra dose of hope-to-see-you-soons. 

John sat back in his chair as she left. Every bone in his body was loose and relaxed. He sighed heavily, contentedly, unable to believe he'd gotten to this point after being so wound up with Sherlock. He realized that Rich - he had been reminded to call him Rich again and it hadn't been so hard as the night progressed - was watching him with a smile half hidden behind the glass pressed to his lips, ready to take a sip that never came. "Am I really that bad off?" John asked.

Rich lowered the glass, giving John the full force of his grin. "Just admiring the change since you walked through that door. I've never seen anyone who looked any more like they needed to be cheered up." Richard's eyes were kind, affectionate. "But, yes, I wouldn't suggest leaning in either direction if I were you." He got up and went over to help John to his feet.

Soon they were making their way back up Baker Street in a meandering, swaying path. John didn't feel like going straight in any one direction. He was in no hurry, but Rich didn't seem to mind. The conversation was as easy as their pace. It had shifted since the crew left, had become more personal. Rich revealed to John many of his insecurities. He talked frankly about being an actor, and for extra measure, talked frankly about his insecurities about being an actor. 

Still, he left John laughing most of the time.

John admitted eventually that he had gotten into a sort-of-argument with Sherlock just before he'd come out, and was glad when Rich didn't press for more after that. The actor seemed to know at just the right moments when to give John space and when to ask questions, and John appreciated it.

This time, they parted ways at the steps of the flat. John could only hope it was due to his state of inebriation that he didn't know exactly how to say goodbye to Rich, in what way would be the most appropriate or the most welcome to the other man. They’d grown closer that night, but there was still potential business between them. A handshake? A hug? An I'll-call-you-concerning-the-show-later? Rich steadied John with a hand to the shoulder when he stumbled, and John returned the gesture, hand clasping Rich’s arm warmly, more sincere than a pat on the back, less awkward than a hug. It felt natural.

Only after John was fumbling with his keys and Rich was heading down the sidewalk again, having said goodbye, did John feel a tendril of apprehension at coming home.

John was quiet upon entering, not sure whether Sherlock was asleep or still as agitated as he'd been before, but knowing either way that it wouldn't do to disturb him. John's keys were set down on the table once again, his coat left on the chair beside it.

Carefully, he made his way to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Sherlock's room remained silent, but John decided that was enough washing up for the night and just as carefully made his way back out the hall and up the stairs. He was yawning, and pulling off his socks as he went, his hand reaching for the light switch just when he noticed a long figure lying on his bed.

For a moment, his heart leapt to his throat in panic until he recognized the silhouette. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Sure enough, it was Sherlock.

When John hesitantly moved closer, he realized that it was one of John's jumpers that was draped over him. Slowly, ever so carefully, John sat down next to the tall man.

Sherlock had fallen asleep like this. John could not fathom what had been going through his mind at the time it occurred, but it struck a chord in him deeply.

He dared to reach out and touch a curl of dark hair, just to make sure it was really Sherlock. That was what John told himself. Finding it so, he carefully laid down next to the taller man, making sure he didn’t disturb him, and closed his eyes. John could do this.

Sherlock stirred, his subconscious sensing another presence in the room. His body overruled any attempt at waking, turning over on one side and pulling his makeshift blanket tighter around himself. He sighed and settled back into sleep.

John felt the shift and then the stillness once he settled. Light breath reached John's cheek and he turned, finding himself face to face with Sherlock, unconscious. He hadn't expected this. But, Sherlock was calm in his sleep, content even. His eyes twitched underneath his lashes, the subtlest of movements. A large lock of hair had fallen over his face. 

John didn't want to look away, and so he turned, also onto his side in a mirror of Sherlock's position. He hoped that this peace could last. John had to wonder whether this was the only way Sherlock could find any peace, in sleep. Tentatively, he reached out and grasped an edge of the jumper.

Sherlock hung onto it even in sleep, but John managed to get a little piece to himself. 

Together, while John dozed off, trying to hold his eyes open just a little longer, just for the moment to last, they held it between them.

* * *

Sherlock woke up before John did, starting in confusion before he realized where he was and who the presence was in front of him. Eyes suddenly wide, Sherlock watched the steady rise and fall that assured him that John was asleep.

Carefully disentangling himself from the jumper still draped over them both, Sherlock warily slid off the bed, trying not to jostle the mattress too much and wake his flatmate.

The slight change of weight in the bed caused John to shift in his sleep, edging closer to the space Sherlock had occupied and pulling the fabric closer to himself. He remained asleep, but his eyes moved as though he were making an expression in this state that wasn't fully translating into the conscious world. With the loss of presence next to him he'd clearly shifted into a lighter state of unconsciousness. The faint scent of alcohol about him, however, was the strongest indication that he would still be out for some time.

Sherlock paused on his way out the door, taking a moment to study John's sleeping figure. A light smile touched his features and he shook his head. His friend was a confusing person, but the oddness was welcome. John wasn't always predictable, and it kept him guessing.

Exiting as quietly as he could manage, Sherlock descended to the main floor and tried to decide on a course of action. His tally came up thusly:

\- He didn't want to wake John, which meant his choices of activity were limited  
\- An investigation of the fridge revealed no edibles, he was hungry, and John was not awake to do the shopping  
\- He had limited components to experiment with  
\- Lestrade would probably want an update on last night's discovery

Mind made up, Sherlock quickly showered and dressed, pulling on his coat and scarf and digging out his cell phone as he headed out the door. He texted as he walked down the street, making his way towards a nearby coffeehouse that also served food.

_Investigated flat last night. Valuable family heirloom stolen._

_\- SH_

The coffeehouse was a quaint little thing. It reflected the tastes of a young college crowd and served about twenty different types of coffees along with bagels, chips, and an assortment of sandwiches. Off brand bottled sodas were also a specialty item. The walls were decorated with local art and old movie posters. Plush chairs and sofas scattered between the tables gave the space an intimate, familiar atmosphere.

The door chimed as the tall detective entered. Already the place was crowded with customers. Most sat in pairs or small groups, a few were alone with laptops and tablets, some of the older patrons held newspapers, but one smallish figure who sat alone on a corner sofa with a tall, frothy drink of some sort and mobile in hand… was familiar.

Sherlock noticed the man immediately upon entering, causing him to pause momentarily in the doorway and wonder if he should go elsewhere. A young couple behind him complained that he was blocking traffic, making his decision for him as he continued up to the queue to order. He didn't have to engage the man in the corner, after all.

And yet... the coincidence was a bit much. Rich had had an unusual amount of focus on Sherlock when he’d let the facade drop for just a moment, and immediately afterwards Sherlock had obtained a murderous, thieving admirer. Sherlock let his gaze drift across the room to Rich, staring at him flatly.

The actor didn't appear to notice, engrossed as he was in his phone. He held it in one hand, thumb jabbing away at the digital keypad while his other held his drink. His lips wrapped around the straw while he sucked without taking his eyes from the phone. He looked like he'd just woken up, hair disheveled and light stubble forming on his chin and upper lip, relaxed but for the focus he paid to whomever he was texting.

Sherlock ordered and paid, weighing his options as he waited for his coffee and sandwich to come up at the end of the counter. This was a perfect opportunity to dig for information. Without John's presence, Brook would be more likely to speak and act candidly. Whether he happened to be the murderer or not, Sherlock might be able to catch enough small clues to deduce exactly what the man's game was.

Accepting his purchases from the barista, Sherlock plastered on the persona he normally used for friendly interrogations. "...mind if I join you?"

Wide, chocolate brown eyes snapped up to Sherlock's in surprise. "Sherlock!" The actor seemed startled to find the detective standing before him. Instantly his body language changed; his legs uncrossed at the ankle and he pulled himself up from the relaxed slouch he'd been in. "No, no not at all." His drink went down on the small coffee table, which he moved out of Sherlock's way, and the phone went into his pocket. Once Rich was reasonably composed, he smiled, leaned forward and gave Sherlock his full attention. "Please." He gestured to an armchair across from him.

"I seem to have startled you. Apologies," Sherlock said with an amused smile, taking the offered seat. Really, if John could see him now, he might have a fit from shock; he hadn't yet seen much of Sherlock’s acting skills.

"I had no idea you frequented this area. It seems a bit strange we've never crossed paths before the other night." He set down his coffee, unwrapped the purchased sandwich - people tended to relax and let some of their guard down when both parties were engaging in the same food ritual. "Or do you only come this way for business?"

Rich gave a small laugh and shook his head, his eyes following Sherlock's mouth as he bit into the sandwich. "No, not this time. Some of the crew live close by. They like to have a night out every so often." He rubbed at one eye, the gesture sleepy and absentminded, before he took another sip of coffee.

Rich glanced up at Sherlock, then his eyes fell down to the table, then back up again as if he were uncertain about something but determined to try anyway. It was a movement wholly reminiscent of John. "I hope you are considering my offer though."

Something tightened in Sherlock's chest; that should not have had as much of an effect as it did. "We are. We've gone over the audition DVD you gave us at our last meeting."

Sherlock took a sip of coffee to buy himself time, considering. He knew John would want to be included in this decision, but he also knew that his colleague was all in favor of the proposed programme. He decided to make small concessions for now, nothing binding. "Not really my cup of tea in terms of genre, as I'm sure you understand in your line of work, but satisfactory. Before we commit to anything, however, I'd like for John and I to meet the cast and crew you have in mind for the project, and to tour your studio. I know a bit of that was included on the DVD, but… indulge me," he smiled, all charm and politeness for once. Mycroft would be in tears to see that his lessons had actually been absorbed, if not followed.

"There are a few other things, if a contract gets drawn up. We'd want to see your episode scripts and approve them, at least at first, until we develop a closer working relationship." John could handle that bit. "I'd also want a promise that your company isn't going to license a bunch of merchandise without consulting us, either. It's really quite bad enough at the moment with people sending John pictures of themselves in deerstalkers."

Richard's eyes lit up, and by the end of Sherlock's concession, he was grinning from ear to ear though not having otherwise moved. "Fantastic!" he exclaimed. "Perfectly acceptable terms." A percentage of tension unwound from his frame, and his hands stopped fidgeting and rested comfortably on his knees. "The crew would love to meet you; they're all very excited. And the studio as well, you're welcome to come by anytime, I'd be happy to show you around. It's not the largest of spaces, but we do have the best equipment available. Except, you'll have to talk to Larry about that, I couldn't tell you the specs on everything." He gave a breathy laugh. "I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are," Sherlock smiled in return, tilting his head down slightly and widening his eyes to give himself an innocent air. It was a trick that worked well on women, but he'd not tried it much on men. "But you're excited and passionate about your work, so that's to be expected."

"I will have to warn you, we've just gotten entangled in a new case, so our schedule will likely be... erratic." To put it mildly. "I'll talk things over with John and he'll get back to you to set up another meeting."

Richard's dark eyes sharpened, almost knowingly, for the briefest of moments when Sherlock looked at him like that, but softened as he moved onto the case. "Let him know that the both of you are welcome whenever you're available. And, I would be happy to send him rough scripts and discuss the formula of the program."

One side of Rich’s mouth quirked up, but his expression didn't lose any of its warmth. "New case, hm? This is good news for you, isn't it? Anything interesting?"

It took concentration to keep his expression smooth and calm, keep his smile from slipping. "You could say that. I'm really not at liberty to discuss too many details of the case while investigation is ongoing, as I'm sure you understand, but... we'll just say that the actual victims, thus far, don't seem to be the real focus of the culprit. It reads more as a besotted bid to attract my personal attention. I suppose it was only a matter of time before I attracted an admirer. Or a rival. I'm not certain which he considers himself yet."

Richard's eyebrows rose. "That…sounds intriguing, and a little unsettling." He shifted in his seat as though trying to imagine, his brows drawing together pensively. "How utterly awful for you, being the focus of such unwanted attention."

And, just then, the tinny, muffled, yet unmistakable sounds of Justin Bieber's voice crooning "Baby, baby, baby, ohhhhh" erupted from Rich’s pocket. Neither party moved. Richard's face turned beet red as he pulled out his phone, switching it off. He gave a single, uncomfortable laugh. "Cast member."

Sherlock's mouth quirked up into a smirk, completely unfeigned. Whoever Richard was, he was good at presentation. He let the opportunity to embarrass the actor even further pass without comment, shrugging instead.

"It's been... interesting so far. It's not that the attention is unwanted or unflattering, but the methods used thus far..." He took another swallow of coffee, drawing it out and watching Richard carefully. "We'll say that I was sent a pointed message of affection, but the action that followed wasn't very conducive to gaining any feelings of camaraderie between us. He picked one of the quicker ways to make me his enemy, but I don't think that was the sort of focus he was planning on."

"Mixed messages then, hm?" Richard seemed to contemplate Sherlock's situation, his mouth pulling into something that wasn't quite a frown, but verged on one. "If he's playing for the long run, then maybe you just haven't gotten the full effect yet." He caught Sherlock's eye, then looked away. "If not, then you've probably just got a psycho on your hands, no? Would that bother you?"

"Not really. I've dealt with... well, not this exact situation before, to be sure, but people in varying states of mental health." Including himself. "It doesn't bother me. Even seemingly irrational people tend to have their own sort of logic, once you understand their point of view. You can learn to predict the seemingly unpredictable. I'm more bothered that he made it exceedingly personal very quickly."

"How do you know it wasn't already personal?" Richard shrugged as though it were inconsequential. He leaned back against the couch, taking a sip of the drink that had been melting on the coffee table. "You'll find out, Sherlock; you always do." A smile touched his lips at that. "I do hope you catch him. I really do."

"So do I." Sherlock let a bit of malice slip into his smile, allowing Rich just enough time to see it before it was hidden by the rim of his mug. "Although I don't need to hope. It's only a matter of time and effort. He wanted my attention, and now he has it."

Speaking of, it was quite odd that Lestrade hadn't responded yet to his text.

It wasn't a moment later that his coat beeped, and did so in a much more respectable manner than Richard's pocket had. Brown eyes lowered to the source of the noise and landed fixedly at Sherlock's waist. Richard sucked loudly through his straw. 

As expected, it was Lestrade.

_Come down to the station. We'll need your statement and a description._

_\- L_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pocketing the mobile and shooting Rich an apologetic smile. "That's my cue, unfortunately. They want me down at Scotland Yard again." He stood, gathering up his trash and getting ready to depart.

"I'll have John set up another meeting, as we discussed." He paused - right, meaningless social pleasantries. What was appropriate for this situation? "...it was nice running into you again. I'm sure we'll talk again soon."

Richard rose to meet Sherlock, smiling. "I'm glad, and I'll be looking forward to it. Now, go, do your good work." He held out his hand, eyes warm again and never leaving Sherlock's face. 

Sherlock hesitated for a split-second, then accepted the gesture. They locked eyes as their hands clasped. "Until next time." Releasing the other man, Sherlock turned on his heel and went to go hail a cab. He had a feeling Scotland Yard was not going to be a pleasant experience today.

Across London, Greg had been dodging crap from Donovan all morning. He hadn't been able to keep Sherlock's book from his team. There was just no way around that, nor should he even feel _compelled_ to keep evidence from them, but no matter how many times he told them to stick to the facts and remain professional, they were making life hell. The gloating from Anderson, who was combing through Rimbaud's rare work, was becoming just as obnoxious as Donovan's speculations.

Currently, he was coordinating teams outside of his own people, going back and forth with those canvassing the neighborhood, those watching the media, those going through evidence, and trying to hold everyone else off from going after Sherlock until Sherlock arrived at the station _willingly_.

After a tense fifteen minute cab ride, Sherlock did arrive. He ignored the receptionist and pushed on towards the back, heading for Lestrade's office.

"Come to confess, Freak?"

Sherlock didn't have any patience for Donovan today. He shot her a sideways glare. "Come to do your job for you, since you're too busy going out on late-night benders, judging from your eyes, breath, and complexion. Did you dump Anderson, or did he dump you to go back to his wife?"

He ignored her furious look as she opened her mouth to reply, letting himself into Greg's office and shutting the door behind him.

Greg had been on the phone when Sherlock swept in. He closed his eyes in exasperation. "Let me call you back," he said to whoever was on the other line.

"We haven't made much headway on your book. No prints, no fibers, no tissue. Still haven't figured out how he kept the dust pattern in place either." Greg dropped into his chair, looking up at Sherlock from beneath furrowed brows. "So tell me about this missing heirloom."

Sherlock eyed the door, moving closer to the desk to minimize the chance of being overheard. He took a seat in a chair opposite Greg. "I was incorrect in my initial assumption that nothing of value had been taken. I had thought that a thief would go for the objects with obvious value that were sitting out in plain sight. We're not dealing with a typical criminal. He decided to go for something more personal."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably; this, like so much of his past, was not a topic he wanted to revisit. "I don't have a safe, but do have a puzzle box I keep hidden in my quarters. It only contained one item, a pocket watch from my father. It wouldn't have much resale value, but the thief knew, _somehow_ , that it had a... great deal of personal value, and where I kept it." He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath; he didn't want a repeat of last night's upset, not in the middle of Scotland Yard.

"It means that the murderer has been in my flat multiple times, enough to search out all possible hiding places. Alsot hat he, as I'm guessing the intruder is male, has spent no small amount of effort doing research on my background and keeping me under covert surveillance. And that he knew exactly how this theft would affect me."

Greg was silent when Sherlock finished. "So this is someone who knows you, knows you very well." His tone was low and serious, and if Sherlock hadn't shut the door already, he would have done so himself. He considered his options. This had suddenly gone from a wide open case to one that centered wholly around Sherlock. "The killing was made to get your attention, then. And the poem, your book, this pocket watch…. Have you considered family acquaintances, or someone you've dealt with before…? I know you've made enemies, and not just _them_." He nodded to the door, indicating Donovan and Anderson.

“I don't think it could be relatives. There aren't many left, and none of them have any particular interest in me that I’m aware of, nor in my mother's estate – Mycroft is due to inherit the lion's share anyways. Most of my distant relatives aren't even in England, and they wouldn't have known enough about me to know about the watch, so they couldn't have mentioned it to anyone."

Sherlock paused to consider. "...it's possible that it may be someone from... before. I have memory gaps from that period and had a number of times where I wasn't in my right mind, so there's a possibility that I mentioned the watch to someone. I hadn't purchased the book yet at that point; I wouldn't have had the money to spare for it, so that had to have been a matter of research. Following the paper trail of receipts and auction records."

Greg chewed his lower lip, not liking the sound of this at all. "In that case….I want to put a tail on you. And _don't_ say you don't need it. Your flat's been broken into I don't know how many times and that's sign enough for me that it might happen again. If he's this focused on you, there's no telling what else he might do. We'll set up a watch on Baker Street and run it in shifts."

"Whoever it is, they've broken in despite my brother's surveillance. Which I can assure you is superior to anything you have access to." It wasn't meant to be an insult, it was plain fact. "If he didn't warn me about it, he didn't see it happen."

The idea of even _more_ people poking their noses into his life was... maddening. That, and he didn't want to give his enemies on the force an excuse to spy on him.

"That does worry me," Greg admitted. "A lot. But at this point it's procedure and I've got to send someone. Your brother has been relying on the CCTV network I assume? We've been reviewing the files, but I have to say, that's a lot of footage over a very indefinite time span, and so far we're not finding anything. What has he said about this whole mess?

"Nothing thus far. I haven't contacted him yet," Sherlock admitted with a sour look. Greg would know why; though he’d never seen Mycroft himself, he'd seen enough of Sherlock’s reactions to his brother. Mycroft did try to look out for him, but in the most stifling of ways. "For all I know, once he's informed he'll try to make me relocate to a sunless fallout shelter until we solve the case."

"If what happened to that guy in Peckham is any indication of what could happen to you, you might want to consider it. Unless getting your head slowly sawed off sounds appealing." Greg shook his own head. "Still no word on who he was. Nobody in the area knew him. Fingerprints, DNA aren't coming up in the system either. We're down to his clothing at this point."

Sherlock frowned. Normally he would have been thrilled that a case was turning out to be more complicated, but he wanted this one done. It was disconcerting to be the target for once. "I'm guessing you've already tried dental records, as well."

Damn it. "Was there anything else at the scene? I didn't have a chance to finish examining everything before we left for the book."

Greg shook his head again. "Not that we're finding. We're not even sure how he got there. You're welcome to take another look if you can get past Donovan. She's been inciting a storm over you all morning." He sighed. Usually he had this under control, but now she had evidence directly linking Sherlock to a horrifically unexplained murder, never mind that the evidence was found and connected to Sherlock _by Sherlock himself_.

"Of course she is." She'd had it out for him from the moment they'd met. Between her bias against sociopaths (even ones on the side of the law) and her violent distaste for addicts (even former ones), it had been a pain point from the word go. She'd been endlessly trying to prove he was the mastermind behind the cases he solved, and this was her golden opportunity to spin evidence the way she wanted it.

"And people believe it because they want to. No, don't look at me like that, Lestrade. You know I'm right." Even Greg had believed it, back in the beginning. It was a little too far-fetched to believe a junkie could waltz up to a crime scene and decode everything in an instant, finding evidence even trained DIs had overlooked.

"You do have to admit, assuming you could get away with it, pretending to be a genius by solving your own crimes does sound more plausible than some of the stuff you pull out of thin air," Greg muttered. "Even if it's true." His phone started ringing again and he sighed. He'd been glued to it all morning. "Let's just catch him and get her off your back, shall we?"

"The sooner the better," Sherlock agreed, standing. "Hand me that pad and a pen. If you find anyone with that watch, I need to know."

Sherlock snatched up the materials as soon as they were offered, sketching out an image in sharp, quick lines. It appeared to be an old-fashioned Victorian pocket watch, complete with roman numerals in an antique font. An engraving of a swallow and a floral design graced the front. A inscription was scrawled inside the rim: _Siger Sherrinford Holmes._

He worked very quickly. Greg imagined that he'd either had an exceptionally good memory of it, or he'd drawn it before to be able to reproduce that much detail. He took the paper when it was finished and nodded to Sherlock. "I'll send out copies of this, and I'll let you know." He stood to see Sherlock out. After a moment of hesitation, before Sherlock could open the door, he added, "And, take care of yourself, alright. Don't need to find you murdered by some maniac after everything you've been through." 

"I'm not planning on getting killed anytime soon." Greg got a flicker of a smile, a real one, gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

Sherlock never said as much, but Lestrade was... something close to a friend, the only one besides Molly who treated him decently on a regular basis. He even tolerated the odd bit of pickpocketing whenever Sherlock was feeling put out, accepting it as a quirk rather than actual malevolence. They'd likely never develop a closer working relationship than what they had now, but Lestrade was... alright.

"I'll text you if anything turns up." With that, Sherlock slipped out of the office. He ignored the jeers and questions from the other officers. He had to find a new angle to pursue, an avenue they hadn't thought to investigate yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim's ringtone was inspired by this vid: http://bit.ly/10g4EdB I saw it and immediately thought "THAT'S OUR JIM!"


	5. Chapter 5

Back at the flat John had woken that morning to find himself alone, still clutching his beige jumper. He hadn't been able to find Sherlock when he'd come down from his room, and that worried him. Not that he suspected something had happened to Sherlock, but he didn't know what state of mind the detective was in either, not since he'd gotten angry. So angry. Over what, John didn't know.

He'd gone into Sherlock's room looking for him, and there he had found a small box lying on the ground. He inspected it, but left it where it was, wondering whether something inside it had gone missing.

John made coffee and stewed over his thoughts at the kitchen table. Finding Rich at Zizzi last night had probably saved his sanity, or at least prevented his mood from diving straight into a worried, drunken depression at some pub while Sherlock threw some kind of fit back at their apartment. But, that wasn't exactly fair. Something had happened to Sherlock, and John had left.

On his way back, Sherlock had decided to stop briefly at the coffee shop again. There wasn't any food in the house and John wouldn't have had time to go shopping yet. Sherlock had guessed that an offering might distract John from uncomfortable questions, such as 'Why Were You Asleep On My Bed?' He paid and walked the rest of the way home, his thoughts wandering between the problem of his murderous admirer, the mystery that was Richard Brook, and his curiosity about where John had vanished last night.

Sherlock ignored the creak of the stairs as he climbed, opening the door only to spot that John had already brewed coffee for himself. Well, there was nothing for it. Sherlock unceremoniously deposited the purchased coffee and wrapped sandwich in front of John, stepping back to remove and hang up his scarf and coat.

"For me?" John raised his eyebrows and looked from the sandwich to Sherlock. "What did I do to get back on your good side?" Or was this Sherlock apologizing for chasing him away last night? John noticed how swift, how fluid and polished Sherlock's movements were with his coat, more like an actor on stage with an audience of only one, and Sherlock probably didn’t even notice his own motion.

John picked up the sandwich, peered at it, and began to unwrap it.

The "sociopathic calm" was back in place as Sherlock took a seat opposite John; the detective wasn't giving anything away with his expression or his body language, locked away behind a facade. Or perhaps it was real and the rare twinges of emotion were the act. It was difficult to sort out who Sherlock was even with ample opportunity to observe him in a variety of situations. It was a distinct possibility that even Sherlock lost track of who he really was at his core.

"We didn't have any food left in the flat."

John gave Sherlock a flat stare. "We didn't have any food, you _noticed_ we didn't have any food, so you're giving me a sandwich and…going hungry?" John's mouth twisted in suspicion and glanced down at what he was opening. It looked like a perfectly normal deli sandwich, but there was that incident with his coffee in Baskerville…. With another glance at Sherlock, who might as well have been holding a full house behind that poker face, he decided to chance it. He felt like he owed Sherlock a bit of trust after walking out on him in need last night. "Well. Thank you." He nodded once, and took a bite. 

"I'm not going hungry, I already ate." Sherlock didn't quite know what to do with the gratitude. "Oh, yes. I ran into Rich Brook at the shop. You need to contact him to set up a tour of the filming studio."

His gaze swept over John; yes, good, the food appeared to be satisfactory. John had had that moment of hesitation, though. He'd have to be careful the next time he wanted to test a compound.

John's brows shot up again. "You ran into Rich?" he asked incredulously, pausing with the sandwich halfway to his mouth for a second bite. "At the coffeehouse? This morning?" 

"Yes. Why?" John's tone indicated that this was unusual in some respect. "He told me he was in the area because some of his crew live nearby and like to have the occasional night out."

"Well," John stopped to think. "…I suppose that does make sense then. I ran into him last night, is all, on my way to the pub. Wound up stopping in that Zizzi place instead and there he was. Met a bunch of people from the crew too, and Edward, the director, even." John sat back, taking the coffee Sherlock brought him even though he'd already had two cups of his own just before. "They've been going to dinner there for months, apparently."

That got his attention. Sherlock's gaze sharpened, pinning John in place. "How long were you drinking with them?"

This information made it a bit more likely that Brook had been telling a partial truth; some of his crew might indeed live nearby, especially if that was the story he'd told John and none of the other employees had called him on the lie. Still, unless he'd slept the night at someone's place instead of taking a cab home, it was very unusual for him to casually be so far away from home the next morning. _Especially_ if he'd spent the previous night drinking for several hours.

"Well…I don't know…I got home pretty late actually, after you were-" John caught himself before he brought up Sherlock's late night stay in his bed. "well, I don't know when you fell asleep, but we were the last ones out. I have to say, they were all very interested in us. I think they would have tried to harangue me into signing up last night if Rich hadn't fought them off. Especially Sheryl. Just broke up with her boyfriend. Seemed like she was looking for a new one,” John laughed. “Bit awkward."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. That wasn't pleasing at all. "Well, I told him the DVD was adequate, but that I have terms to discuss with them. And that we need to see the studio in person. Hopefully Rich can keep awkward confrontations away."

John still hadn't mentioned last night. Sherlock didn't know whether that meant he was in the clear or if John was just waiting for the right moment to spring questions on him.

"She wasn't that bad," John mumbled into the coffee. Sheryl was actually very nice, but John wasn't feeling the spark this time. Maybe there was just too much going on. He'd been so grateful to Rich, besides. Like a white knight, he'd pulled John out of what would have only turned into a night of wallowing in his own uncertainty.

Silence fell between them as each man considered his own thoughts regarding the night prior. Honestly, John was concerned about what had caused Sherlock’s freak out. He didn't want to bring up that uncomfortable situation, and it seemed that neither did Sherlock. He looked at Sherlock, who seemed content to go on not bringing it up, out of the corner of his eye. Looked like it would be John, then.

"So…." His hands folded together around the cup of coffee. "Are you going to tell me what happened last night?"

Sherlock went completely still, something John recognized by now - it was a sign that he was thinking rapidly about a social problem. He paced and gestured and muttered to himself when pondering case files and theories, but completely froze when he thought he was stepping into a field of conversational landmines.

"I thought it was obvious. I got upset."

"Yes. _That_ part was obvious," John deadpanned. _That_ part was impossible to miss. Sherlock in such a fury as he'd been in was something John had never seen before. He could barely imagine it to look at the cold, silent figure Sherlock made now, but it was ingrained into John's memory clearly, a stark contrast to every emotion he'd ever glimpsed in Sherlock before that moment. He'd seen the man uncertain of his own faculties, fighting off fear, battling between logic and instinct in Baskerville…. But, he'd never seen Sherlock in grief-stricken fury. John swallowed, trying to go about this gently. "What caused you to be upset?"

Tension settled into the dark haired man's frame and he looked everywhere but at John. "Something important was stolen that I can't replace. As a taunt, or a trophy." Someone, somewhere, had that watch. It was a strange thing, the fact that one small item could conjure up so much emotion and anxiety. _This_ was the danger of attachment, of caring, even when there was nobody on the other end to care for. Even when he couldn't really remember who _had_ been on the other end.

"Sherlock," John tried to bring his attention back. _It must have been something he'd kept in the box._ Something small, then. Something personal. John fixed his gaze on Sherlock and spoke with the steadiest tone he could muster. "If that's true, then he won't have harmed it. Whatever it was, we'll find him. We'll get it back."

Sherlock nodded stiffly. He wouldn't accept any other possibility, really. He'd track down the culprit sooner or later, and the murderer would either have it or the clues needed to retrieve it. Simple enough, he just had to be patient.

John followed Sherlock's gaze with his own, fruitlessly hoping that Sherlock might confide in him further if he could just catch the man's eye.

When it became clear that wasn't going to happen, John sat back in chair, letting his hands fall to his lap. The coffee was mostly cold anyway. He didn't need to interrogate Sherlock now. Obviously he was in pain over this, and they were in the middle of an investigation, besides. If it did come up, then he would find out what had been taken and his curiosity would be assuaged.

"Alright, then." John got to his feet and gathered together his cups and rubbish. Usually on a case he wouldn't need to say this, but…usually on a case Sherlock would already be running around, pulling him along, "Let me know when Lestrade calls, yeah?"

"He won't be for awhile yet. They can't get an ID on the body. We're going to have to go back to the scene and to the morgue to find what they've missed, and it's going to be a royal pain. Most of them are convinced that I've done it."

There had to be _something_ , some connection to follow, even without an ID on the victim. The deserted location was merely a matter of convenience, but the method of execution was more intricate than a killer would normally indulge in. He had been showing off.

"I can occupy Donovan, if I must." That was John playing the martyr, but there was a lightness in his tone that suggested a certain amount of humor. It also implied John was more worried than he was outwardly expressing, trying to lighten the mood in any subtle way he could manage. John hoped Lestrade's call would come soon, for Sherlock's sake.

"You might have to. Finish your breakfast, we have to go."

For the second time that morning Sherlock bundled up against the early autumn chill, pausing to collect a few items from the makeshift laboratory he had set up in the kitchen. If Donovan was really pressing the rest of the force with her theories, it might be impossible to do any analysis by borrowing the lab at Scotland Yard. He'd have to take samples over to Bart's and manipulate Molly into giving him the access he needed.

"Hm? What's happened?" John wrapped together what was left of his sandwich and was at Sherlock's side in no time. "Lestrade text you?" He could guess the answer, one of the only reasons Sherlock would be packing up. John grabbed his own coat and shoved the sandwich in his pocket, hoping he wouldn't forget about it and sit on it later.

"No, we're going back to the scene to do their job for them and find what they missed." There had to be something; he _always_ found missed evidence. "And then the morgue." He pulled out his phone and checked it, just to be certain he hadn't missed a text during the trip back home.

"Right. Well then, let's be off." John nodded once and when Sherlock was ready they made for the door. 

The combined thunder of their footfalls down Mrs. Hudson's rickety old stairs was a familiar and comforting tone. They were back on a case. The detective’s energy seemed to have returned to him after the minor breakdown and the morning's discomfort. 

Sherlock always felt better when he had something to do, a focus worthy of his time and attention. The personal aspect of this case just meant that there would be a better thrill at the end. He wouldn't just prove his intellect and skill, he'd get a taste of revenge at the same time.

He loved a good case and a good opponent, but thus far the criminal had failed to amuse.

John trailed after Sherlock as they bundled into a cab with all of their gear. A nondescript silver car pulling out away from the curb behind them meant Lestrade had gone ahead and put a tail on them already. Sherlock's blogger was as oblivious as ever, however, and watched out the window as they sped along back to Peckham.

Sherlock fidgeted in the cab the entire way, anxious to actually start _doing_ things. He wanted to get on with the chase. He forced himself to breathe deeply, staring out the window instead and indulging in fantasies of what he'd like to do with the criminal if he didn't have to worry about police interference when he caught up to him.

It didn't take long to get south of the river, although it still wasn't quick enough for Sherlock's tastes. The detective bolted out of the cab and ducked under the tape barrier; their tail would have figured out where they were heading and reported it, so it was only a matter of time before they would have unwelcome company.

The place was unusually deserted. John, keeping up as best he could, figured they must have exhausted their efforts for the time being inside the building. Or, for all he knew, maybe everyone was on lunch.

They had to pick the lock on the outer door to gain access. Lestrade kept the scene locked down to deter local thrill seekers, but John knew from experience that the DI didn't expect a locked door to keep him and Sherlock out. "So, where do we start?" he asked once they were in, eying the stairs. The old building had an eerie quality to it that he hadn't noticed before, not while in the presence of so many people. 

"They'll already have vacuumed after removing the body, so chances of getting fiber samples are slim. Hopefully they won't have removed the bloodstained patches of floor yet." Sherlock drew a scraper and a small UV wand out of his pocket, along with a plastic bag. "First, whatever samples we can get. Especially residue from where the killer had been standing."

He took the stairs two at a time in his haste to get started. He had to pick the lock on the door leading to the correct room and, sure enough, the bloodstains were still intact... if a little mussed by the vacuums the police had used to try to gather fiber and DNA evidence.

John wondered how he could tell where the killer had been standing from only the bloodstains on the floor, but he went along with Sherlock anyway. As far as he could tell, there was no "hole" in the pattern anywhere. He moved around the room, looking at the walls while Sherlock collected bits of things from the floor.

"Sure was quite a spray, wasn't it?" John didn't want to imagine how it had happened, but it was hard not to. There were even flecks of it across the ceiling.

"Yes." Really, it was amazing how people felt the need to fill the silence with all sorts of trivial statements that reviewed what a child already would have observed and known. It said something about human psychology that people feared quiet.

The killer would have enjoyed this, would have wanted to watch... but would have been smart enough not to stand too close. The blood had flown everywhere and there were too many modern diseases that could be caught via bodily fluids. He would have either stood well away from the spatter, or...

Sherlock finished bagging his dried blood samples, sealing and stowing them in his coat pocket before he flicked on the UV light and surveyed the floor. Scotland Yard had already trampled all over the scene, making footprints problematic to separate. Sherlock sighed in frustration and continued scanning.

The detective would essentially be tuned out until finished. John had learned this from experience, so he continued about the room at his own pace. He looked over the stains for a while, and then the window. There wasn't much of a view. Each of the buildings in the complex was fairly run down, and most of the trees in the area were already missing their leaves. They stood stark and muddy looking against a foreground of equally stark and brown architecture.

Sherlock went to the corner of the room where he would have viewed the proceedings if he were the murderer, turning in place and trying to shift himself to a different person's perspective. The floor didn't yield any clues in the light. Unfazed, he turned his gaze higher.

The detective stared for a moment at one of the many cracks in the aged plaster. Yes, if he was smart about the whole affair, that would have been an excellent spot to hide a device.

Sherlock grabbed one of the beat-up chairs that were still in the room, dragging it over and stepping up. With a bit of fiddling and a small knife, he hit gold; a tiny electronic camera hit his palm. He promptly bagged it and tucked it away.

"John." His colleague was staring out the window for some reason. "What is it?"

"Hm? Nothing. Just a bit dreary out there is all." Pulled from his thoughts, John turned to see Sherlock having just stepped down from the chair. His eyes cast up to the ceiling above it. There was no blood, only fading plaster. Taking a moment to rub his hands together to keep the circulation going - he hadn't been as aware of the chill yesterday - John stepped away from the window. "You find anything?" He asked hopefully.

"We'll have to see." He didn't have the equipment to operate on something so small, nor what was necessary to take the video data off the camera. The search for that would have to come after an inspection of the corpse at the morgue. "I've found as much as we're going to here. Time to pay Molly a visit."

"Right, ok." John surmised that if Sherlock wasn't sure of his findings, he probably didn't want to share them with the Yard just yet. "I'll phone ahead."

He picked out Molly's number as they exited the way they came, locking up behind them as they went. She sounded busy when she answered, but she'd never missed a call from him before. He suspected it having something to do with Sherlock coming attached to his side.

Sherlock looked down the street behind them and spotted a patrol car in the distance - that was their tail's backup, currently caught in the thick London traffic. He put a hand on John's back and pushed him to go faster, scanning for another cab. "Company."

John's pulse quickened. He picked up his pace and when he looked behind them, caught sight of it, too. The Yard, much as they were used to it by now, didn't usually take kindly to them mucking about with their crime scenes unsupervised.

John leaned into the street and waved to a cab coming in from the opposite direction. "Don't think Lestrade would give us the benefit of the doubt if I gave him a ring and asked him nicely to call them off?" He shot Sherlock a tight smile, hoping he wouldn't be spending the afternoon in the back of a squad car.

"I already talked to him in person this morning. I doubt he'd listen to you any better." A stroke of luck - the cabbie spotted them and pulled over. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and pulled him along in a dash to the other side of the street. They got in with time to spare; the squad car was still a few streetlights away.

"St. Bart's," Sherlock told the cabbie, promptly sliding the window shut for some privacy as soon as they started to move.

John was beginning to feel the rush now. He'd missed this without realizing it. By the time they were safely moving along he was smiling openly. "Nothing says we're back to work like dodging the police before noon, hm?" He caught Sherlock's eye and enjoyed the little spark of adrenaline in his system.

Sherlock smiled back, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Between their narrow escape and his discovery of a major piece of evidence Lestrade's team had overlooked, the day was looking very promising indeed. With luck he should have the case solved in a few days. "That's just for starters."

Sherlock noted how happy John had become at the first hint of trouble, even if it was minor. He really did thrive under stressful situations.

John broke their gaze to glance behind them, but his grin didn't falter for the rest of the drive.

Molly was there to greet them at St. Bart's. Whenever they saw her, John was struck by the thought of her, helped with her disorderly hair and rumpled lab coat, as a mouse hiding away cozily in one of the oldest buildings in London. Her usual, nervous smile and quiet "Hello Sherlock" did nothing to dissuade the comparison.

"Molly." Sherlock might as well have been an automaton, for all the emotion he put in his tone. "We need to use the lab."

Sherlock was well aware that she had only begun to assist him because she found him attractive. He saw nothing wrong in taking advantage of such things, especially as she never caused him any harm. John had lectured him once that his behavior was cruel, but Molly never complained or rejected it. The odd bit of flattery in her direction wasn't even necessary now, so perhaps it was a moot point.

"We'd _like_ to borrow the lab with your permission, _if_ it's available," John amended.

"Of course," she looked from John to Sherlock, her eyes fluttering rapidly when they landed on him as though he had been the one speaking to her so politely. "I was only just finishing a few things in there now; it's open until I leave for the day." Molly led them at a brisk pace down the familiar hall with a wave of her hand as if it were no trouble. She cleared her throat softly as they strode through the doors, Sherlock and John barely slowing. "So….What are you working on this time?"

"Tracking down a maniac with a chainsaw. Apparently it _doesn't_ just happen in films," Sherlock remarked with amusement. Setting up the right lab equipment was effortless; he was here so often that he knew every storeroom.

Sherlock retrieved the plastic bag of blood evidence from his coat pocket, setting it aside while he prepared the solutions he'd need to analyze it for contaminants.

"O- _oh._ That sounds _awful_." Molly blinked in shock.

"Yeah. Pretty bad," John confirmed. Sometimes, not that he was unaffected himself, he wondered how she managed to comfortably work in a morgue.

Molly left them to it and went quietly back to her own work. For the most part, she went about her own business, but her gaze often drifted to Sherlock's table. John on the other hand took a chair on the other side of Sherlock's table and settled in to watch the detective work without preamble.

Sherlock eased into routine, dividing up the samples he'd collected and beginning to dissolve them in the solutions so he could determine whether other components were present. He observed John out of the corner of his eye as he worked. It was a bit disconcerting that John almost mirrored Molly in one respect... except that she was much more discreet about watching him. John didn't even attempt to disguise his gaze.

While solving crimes was interesting, it was more interesting if he was the one doing it. Sherlock had no idea how John could stand the boredom of simply _watching lab work._

John managed to do it for quite some time, however. He didn't speak, content enough to let Sherlock work. His blue eyes followed the other man's hands as much as they followed the process of chemical reactions in Sherlock's instruments. If not a detective, John thought he could have been a hypnotist.

Occasionally, Molly broke the silence by opening of a bag of chips, or the harsh clatter of beakers she knocked into one another, or the clack of cupboard doors. Mostly, the group worked in silence, but overtly or surreptitiously, all were focused on Sherlock.

The detective sighed as each and every vial and slide revealed... nothing. It had been a minute chance that debris from the killer's shoes or bits of fiber had been covered and trapped by the dried blood, but it hadn't panned out.

"Molly, the John Doe hasn't been processed yet, has he? Decapitation victim." He'd look over the corpse if it was there. Otherwise the only thing he had left to go on was the camera he'd found.

"Yeah, I think he's down there now if you'd like to see. I didn't get a chance to look at the body though, the team from the Yard were with it all night." She seemed apologetic about this, as though Sherlock would have expected her to examine it for him. "I had the night off, in fact. Went to see a movie. Do you know the one that just came out this weekend, about the couple who gets a puppy?"

John glanced at her awkwardly, telling her with his eyes that this was not a good thread of conversation.

"It…destroys their house?" she trailed off with a small, embarrassed laugh.

Sherlock turned his head and graced her with a bored, flat look. "...the things people waste their time and their minds on." This, _this_ was why he was surrounded by incompetent idiots. People had plenty of opportunities to fill their brains with useful things and they consistently chose to fritter away their lives and memory-space on pointless drivel.

The detective disposed of the remains of his tests, leaving the dirty glassware in the sink. "Well, let's have a look."

"….fine." Molly shut down immediately. Her shoulder's slumped and her eyes dropped to the floor, but the set of her mouth remained tight. She reached for her keys and recomposed herself while she led the two men down to the morgue without another word.

Though John braced for it when she opened the door for them, the smell of chemicals, sterilizers, and dead bodies made his expression sour. It wasn't overt, but he would never get used to the odor of sterile death.

Sherlock automatically snatched up latex gloves from a container by the door and snapped them into place. The body would have been cleaned and already had the blood drained, but he wasn't interested in the blood. He wanted to see what other marks the killer might have left behind - bruises, scrapes, injection points, anything. He wanted all the information he could wring from this victim before his admirer moved onto the next one.

It was all he could do to wait patiently as Molly looked up the correct location of the body and wheeled the table out.

In spite of the smell, John moved closer. This was the one area in which, as a doctor, he felt moderately confident in giving his professional advice to Sherlock. The body he had seen yesterday would have been hard to recognize as the same one, were it not for the pronounced missing head and perfectly level yet irregular edge cuts to the separated portion of the neck. The last one had been a person once. This one was more like an alien, drained of color, stiff and rigid, and smelling of chemicals.

As far as John could see the body had looked to be in good health, if a bit paunchy, before decapitation.

Sherlock lifted one of the corpse’s arms, then the other, examining every patch of skin for signs of... anything. Restraint, abrasion, anything that might give a clue as to how the man was abducted. There was _nothing_ , aside from the horrific rendering at the neck - not even a discernible injection mark to indicate that he'd been drugged and dragged into place.

He'd have to ask Lestrade about the results from the preliminary blood work. As it was, it didn't look like the man had put up a struggle at all.

Sherlock's cool eyes showed no triumph at the end of his inspection.

John had been watching Sherlock, hoping the other man would call out ten things he missed, as was usually the case. In fact, this whole case thus far had rendered Sherlock unusually quiet. Normally he would be running on and on with a laundry list of evidence.

Molly stepped closer, sensing a pause in the investigation, and the three living occupants in the room gazed in dissatisfaction at the dead man who refused to give up his secrets. She jumped when someone’s phone rang.

Sherlock stripped off his gloves before snatching his mobile from his coat pocket. He checked the number before deciding he'd answer just this once - it was Lestrade. "Yes?" Sherlock listened intently for a moment before his cold detachment twisted into anger, narrowing his eyes and bringing a snarl to his lips. "What do you mean?"

He was tempted to throw his phone across the room. "You've had him for that long and you didn't tell me." This didn't happen, it _never_ happened. "We're on our way." Sherlock hung up and pressed his palms against his eyes, letting his breath leave him in a slow hiss.

"What, what's happened?" John turned, eyes wide on Sherlock, hands held out as though not sure whether they should be on the move or whether he should wait for Sherlock to regain his composure. Molly clutched her hands together at her chest and backed away a good five feet.

"Lestrade. Says that they 'found him'. They've had him for a few hours now and he _didn't tell me._ " That was not part of their agreement. It didn't matter that Sherlock had held out evidence from Scotland Yard before; he and Greg had spoken, Greg knew about important personal matters that were tied into this, and they'd agreed to keep the other updated with any findings.

And then Greg had allowed him to waste time scrambling for scraps of evidence and missed clues when he _already had a suspect in hand._

Sherlock took a sharp breath and lowered his hands, face impassive once more, his anger already swallowed and banished. For now. "Back to the Yard."

John blinked. "Okay, okay. Let's go." They took off, Sherlock completely ignoring Molly and John giving a half-wave over his shoulder. "That was _fast_."

One day and Lestrade already had a suspect in custody? When Sherlock didn't even _have_ a suspect? That made no sense and it threw off John's equilibrium, used as he was to Sherlock being five steps ahead of the Yard at any given moment.

They caught a cab and rode in tense anticipation.

"Something isn't right." Lestrade had told him that they couldn't even ID the victim, and he hadn't given off any of the classic signs of dishonesty. Greg was not that good a liar. Something major had to have occurred for them to suddenly have a suspect in custody out of the blue. It was all too convenient.

Greg was going to be more than pickpocketed for keeping Sherlock in the dark like this.

When they arrived at the Yard, John had to pay the cabbie and then chase after the detective to catch up. They stalked down the busy halls until they reached Lestrade's office. The sterile suite of office spaces was chaos, more so than usual.

Greg spotted them as they entered. He looked like he hadn't gotten much sleep last night. His salt and pepper hair stood up in places he'd obviously been running his hands through, his tie was loose around his neck, and his eyes looked tired but triumphant.

"Sherlock, John." He nodded to them both. "Record time. You'll also be wanting to know about the watch, I presume? Didn’t have it."

Damn the man. Sherlock gave Greg a pointed look - he hadn't told John what had been stolen. It would have caused more questions that he didn't want answered, after his flatmate had seen his outburst. "I want to know who you have, why you're so certain you have the right person, and why you didn't immediately inform me."

He had wanted to know whether the watch had been recovered, but not in front of John. Somehow another display of his lack of control regarding the topic struck him as just this side of obscene.

Lestrade looked a little insulted, not an uncommon expression on him when dealing with Sherlock. John glanced between them, not entirely sure if the item Sherlock had lost was the watch Greg referred to.

"Look, I'm sorry we didn't ring you earlier, but we've been a little busy. Found him only a few hours ago holed up in a truck on the edge of the property. The canvassers got some tips that he'd been there since early this morning. When they found him, well…you can tell me for yourself that this isn't our guy. He's mad. Never seen anything quite like it before."

Greg led them down the halls again, past other departments and deep into the building. Finally they found themselves on the other side of an interview room looking through a one way mirror. The lone man sitting in the little room on the other side of the glass was middle aged, badly shaven, and looked like he hadn't bathed in days. He was also having fits of some sort. He looked like he was tweaking out of his mind and terrified, fine one moment then recoiling at nothing the next. He couldn't see them watching on the other side of the glass, and John found that he was glad for it.

"Found him doped up, he's still coming out of it. Lab's trying to find out what's in his system, could be a mix of things at this point. But his truck? Filled with equipment from that contraption, everything, even the chainsaw. And," he looked pointedly at Sherlock, "paraphernalia from the media, all about you."

Sherlock watched the suspect with narrowed eyes. He was quite familiar with junkies and the side effects of various drugs, some of which he knew from personal experience. Being crazed from chemical substances wasn't the same as actually being insane, and there was no possible way the man could have rigged up that contraption while tweaked out like this. Damage to the brain might have caused persistent paranoid delusions even while sober, but a high like this would render him incapable of actions that required a lot of thought and manual dexterity.

"Did you find it on him? What has he told you?"

Greg shook his head. "He hasn't _said_ anything at all. Tongue's been cut out." He made a face. "Haven't found the rest of it, but we suspect he did it himself. Had a bloody rag pressed to it when we found him this morning. Either way, he's not talking to us. Won't write, can barely understand a word he says when he tries to say anything at all."

They couldn't see evidence of the wound from where they were. The man appeared not to be in much pain, but that could easily have been reduced by the combination of adrenaline and drugs.

"Apparently, his name's Joe Gasper and according to the HOLMES database - no relation," Lestrade quipped as he did every time he mentioned the Met's IT system in Sherlock's presence, "he's got a history of violent crimes spanning back to the nineties. In and out of prison since."

Sherlock let his gaze sweep over the suspect once more before turning his attention to Greg. "This isn't him. Or at least, if he participated, there was at least one other person. If he was found this easily, he's meant to take the fall."

This man was a gibbering mess and likely wouldn't be much improved even after the drugs left his system. This wasn't a mastermind, and someone with an extreme level of skill and intelligence would be needed to evade detection from both Mycroft and himself.

"Look, I'll admit there's a lot we're still piecing together, but this is a pretty clear cut find. _And_ what evidence do we have that there was another person in the room besides your hunch?" Greg tugged a hand through his hair, eyes moving back to Gasper. "If you can prove there was somebody else pulling the strings, be my guest. But, you haven't seen the shit he kept in that truck yet. He was obsessed with you." Lestrade looked a little uncomfortable at that.

He'd let Sherlock interview suspects often enough, and expected that the detective wanted to now, but that detail made him wary.

"Greg, the culprit avoided my brother's surveillance system _and_ invaded my home, multiple times, leaving so little trace that even _I_ didn't notice." Sherlock's voice fairly dripped with contempt. "And you're telling me that _this man_ did everything, and by himself? I don't care how obsessed he is, he isn't mentally capable of such a thing. That's like suggesting that a mouse built the London Eye overnight."

Sherlock's hands clenched, thinking about the camera he'd found.

Lestrade's teeth ground and his jaw worked as if he were trying to counter Sherlock's argument but couldn't find the right words. Finally, he settled. "We _are_ pursuing every theory we've come across and _so far this is the best we've got_. If we can get him to talk, whether he had a partner or not, we could close this case and you won't have to worry when you go home at night."

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. "If you want it, you've got five minutes with him." He'd decided that letting Sherlock argue his point would be more conducive to the situation than keeping the murderer and the focus of his obsession apart. "If either of you move an inch over the middle of that table, you're out of there."

Gasper was cuffed to the chair, he wouldn't be able to move his hands further than a foot from the table, but Greg didn't wholly trust Sherlock not to try anything out of the ordinary.

"Fine. Let me in then."

It was a shot in the dark. As drugged as the man was, it was going to be an effort to try to decipher his body language, and body language was _all_ that Sherlock was going to get. Still, if Gasper was the designated fall guy, there should be an interesting reaction when he stepped into the room. The level of fear, defiance, or passion the suspect displayed would give him a bit of insight.

Sherlock noted Greg's wary expression and gave him a sarcastic flicker of a smile.

Lestrade did not look amused, but he asked John to stay where he was and brought Sherlock around to the other side. With a stiff nod to the consulting detective, Greg unlocked the door and allowed him in.

Gasper snapped to attention the moment he saw Sherlock. He didn't move until the door closed behind the tall man, eyes flickering to the glass, then back to the detective. His hands shook within the chains that kept him cuffed to the table.

"They're not going to help you, no." Intimidation would be his best bet with this one. Sherlock had to get him focused, more frightened of _him_ at that moment than of anything or anyone else. Whoever Gasper’s partner was, he was ruthless enough to cut out the man's tongue; overriding that fear for another would be difficult.

Sherlock let hints of malevolence seep into his movements - cold, smoothly predatory, a bored sociopath that had found himself in a room with only one plaything. He stopped just short of the table, completely ignoring the chair; having to look up would have a subtle effect on the man's psyche, building on the feeling of powerlessness and giving the impression that Sherlock had far greater authority. "You're going to tell me what I want to know. You will do this because you know very well who I am, because I am here and your partner is not, and because I am not with the Yard. …I don't have to follow their rules," he added in a low drawl, a cruel smirk flashing briefly across his lips. Sherlock hoped Lestrade knew better than to interrupt.

Now the man's whole body shook. He hunched into the table ever so slightly, clearly trying to keep himself still. Wide eyes remained fixed on Sherlock, carefully following the detective’s hands whenever they moved. Gasper made a guttural sound, probably not one intended to be speech, but one that clearly expressed fear.

He recognized Sherlock, that was a given, but the manner in which he was frightened by the detective was suspect. Had whomever he was working with warned him about Sherlock's possibly unstable personality, he might be afraid of Sherlock. Had the other man threatened him not to speak to Sherlock, he might be afraid of the repercussions. Or, lastly, if Gasper's meeting with Sherlock was the last piece of the setup to this second man's puzzle, he might be afraid of messing up his role.

"Since you cannot speak, you're going to tell me what I need to know in a different way. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand?" It was a simple enough concept. It the man refused to comply, it would mean that, in his mind, his partner still offered the greater threat. If he agreed, Sherlock would have the task of deducing how much of his answers were lies or misleading truths.

The shaking that wracked Gasper's body slowly stopped. His breath rattled through parted lips as he forcibly tried to calm himself. Beads of sweat formed at his temples. With hands clasped together and drawn into his chest, he looked at Sherlock and blinked once.

Sherlock kept very still, not wanting to betray any excitement at his success lest it scare the man past the point of communication. "Good. Another man cut out your tongue, yes?" He only had five minutes to get the information he needed, unless Greg held off now that they were getting answers. Or unless he could manage to quickly block the door.

Nervous eyes darted to the window, then back to Sherlock. Gasper rung his hands and the cuffs clinked against the table. The motions he made with them suggested that he was remembering something practiced. His thumbs moved under the other fingers until he noticed Sherlock watching and ceased the motion. With a gulp of air, he blinked once.

"This man is the one who is obsessed with me. He wanted to send me a message and he's using you to do it." Sherlock leaned forward slightly. "Do you have the message?" Whether the man participated in the chainsaw decapitation was meaningless - he was not the mastermind. Jailing him wouldn't solve the case.

One blink. This time it was deliberate, no mistaking it for anything else. Trembling hands rose and gestured from Gasper to Sherlock, mimicking the writing of paper and pen.

Watching from the other side of the one way glass, Greg grabbed the requested items. "Fuck me. He's going to talk to Sherlock." He ran to the door, leaving John with his arms wrapped around himself, watching with silent concern.

Sherlock didn't move, waiting for Greg to bring the needed supplies. He watched impassively as the DI entered and took the offered items without comment.

Turning back to the suspect, he slid the pen and pad of paper across the table. "Tell me."

Gasper's wide, bloodshot eyes swiveled to Lestrade and he clutched the paper to himself.

With a scowl, Greg took the hint and reluctantly moved out of the room.

Gasper's muscle twitches were coming back. He was becoming increasingly nervous. Only when the door shut behind Lestrade did he lower the pad and pen to the table. His paranoia was for naught. The room was rigged for sound and a camera sat high on the wall, recording everything. Even if he hadn't known that, he must have realized that Lestrade would eventually read whatever he wrote. Still, he hunched down over his pad and paper, glancing up at Sherlock to make sure he was watching, and carefully scribbled out one sentence. He shoved it across the table to Sherlock.

_"This one was all mine. Next one is all yours,"_ it read. Gasper then glanced at the camera, fiddling with his hands again as though he had more to say.

Sherlock immediately knew what was meant. The mastermind behind the latest crime had let a pawn fall to take the consequences as well as deliver this note. Or perhaps taunt was a better word.

He'd let this case be "solved" by a convenient scapegoat, showing off his skill at executing crimes and leaving little-to-no evidence, snatching victory away from Sherlock before he'd even had a chance to get started on his investigation. This was a challenge; there would be no hints given for the next crime. The murderer wanted to test his skills directly against Sherlock's.

A spark of excitement lit up Sherlock's eyes. "I understand. When? Give me a name." He pushed the paper back to the other man.

The paper was shoved to the side. With jittery hands, Gasper tried to rise, then when he couldn't, scooted forward in his chair instead so that he was flush up against the table. He swallowed and looked pointedly up at the camera, then jerked his head for Sherlock to step between it and himself. The detective's tall frame and coat blocked out Gasper for a second. That was all he needed to clench one fist, thumb tucked between ring and pinky fingers, signing the letter M.

Sherlock nodded. He didn't care if Greg was irritated afterwards by the fact that he was blocking the recording. Getting the information was all that mattered.

"When?" he asked again, looking pointedly at the man. He wanted one more reaction. Conscious of both the room's camera, their observers behind the glass, and the audio equipment recording every sound, he drew the suspect's attention to his lips, silently mouthing the words out of view of both lens and curious eyes. _I found the camera._

Gasper's eyes widened. He grew even more tense. With a quick, awkward succession of hand signs, he spelled the word "soon".

That was when Lestrade burst through the door, fed up with their attempts at secrecy. "Five minutes are up," he growled at Sherlock, holding the door open and demanding with his gaze that he get the hell out of Lestrade's interview room _now_.

Sherlock sighed in frustration and swept from the room. The suspect probably hadn't known much more anyways, but it still felt like he'd been given a toy only to have it promptly taken away.

It was to be a game; the _real_ murderer had declared his confidence in his superior abilities, challenged Sherlock to a duel, and even set the stakes - Sherlock's stolen watch. All he had was an initial and assurances that the next event would begin soon.

Sherlock couldn't wait.


	6. Chapter 6

"What the _hell_ was that?" Greg demanded as he and John came out. He'd seen everything, they both had - everything but what had been said between Gasper and Sherlock at the end.

Lestrade snatched the pad of paper. "…’next one is all yours'? What does _that_ mean?"

"It means this isn't your murderer. It's a taunt; the real culprit set up this man to take the blame for the chainsaw killing, effectively 'solving' his own crime. He thinks he's too clever to get caught. It's a declaration that he won't provide a convenient scapegoat for the next crime. He wants to see if I'm truly a challenge."

Sherlock folded his arms and stared Greg down. "I could have gotten more out of him had you not interrupted."

"Which would have been worthless with you _blocking the camera_ ," Greg stressed. "You can't leave us out of the loop here. _Everything_ he says, I need to know."

Finally John stepped in, sensing the downhill turn of the conversation. "Did you get a name?"

"He refused to write it down. He was afraid of leaving a record that he'd revealed it, likely convinced the record would leak and he'd be killed. I wouldn't rule out that possibility anyway, Lestrade, so you may want to put him under heavy watch." If the murderer was as good as he thought, the scapegoat would soon be dead even with high security protecting him.

"I didn't get a name because, _sadly_ , there wasn't _time_ for him to sign it. All I got was 'M'," Sherlock huffed in irritation.

"Sherlock, there's a _reason_ these things are recorded." Greg was getting just as frustrated. "I can't put you in there unofficially, even as good as you are, and then have you come out with unofficial evidence! Look. Alright." He forced himself calm. "We'll see if we can dig up any ties he's got to anyone with that initial. He's got a _long_ history."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Greg but said nothing. They both knew how far they'd stretched the rules regarding Sherlock and his "unofficial" evidence before. "It won't be your run-of-the-mill criminal. We're looking for someone who likes to plan and execute crimes from a distance, using pawns and intermediaries."

Greg exhaled slowly, knowing this was going to be hell to dig up. And Sherlock had evaded him on camera, there was no way he was going to be able to show that interview to anyone and explain it away. At least they had the pad of paper as a concrete statement even if determining that Gasper had been speaking for a second person might be difficult.

"We'll keep looking. And he'll be under observation until we can get anything, you don't have to worry about that." Greg looked tired. "I'll call when we need you again." 

"You may want to add 'promptly' to that," Sherlock admonished him, shoving his hands into his pockets. Lestrade wasn't going to get the camera he’d found, not yet. Not after the DI had held out on him. He was going to wring as much information from it as he could before he let the Yard have it.

"Come on, John. We're going home."

They left Lestrade in the hall. John had to hurry to keep up with Sherlock's brisk pace; the detective was almost as keen to get out of the building as they had been to arrive.

Once out in open sunlight, John deemed it safe to ask. "So that was everything then? Just the letter M? Did he say when to expect the next murder?" The questions tumbled from John like a waterfall.

"Just _soon_." Unless it was in the next 30 minutes, it wouldn't be _soon enough_. "I'd wager that we'll get an unmistakable sign when he starts the second round. The murders just happen to be incidental. He wants to play a game with me, and games aren't any fun if your opponent doesn't know he's playing."

They stepped out onto the curb, hailing the nearest cab.

The ride back to Baker Street was quiet. Both John and Sherlock were lost in their own thoughts.

John wanted to ask about the watch, but if Sherlock's subtle reactions were anything to judge by, he did not want to talk about it. Obviously he'd told Lestrade, so it was either that he didn't want to discuss it with John, or he'd been forced to tell Lestrade so that the police could look for it. 

John thought about what he knew. It was a family heirloom. Something that belonged to his father, maybe? His grandfather? Something passed down through the Holmes generations and Sherlock had been meant to take care of it? He'd never thought Sherlock to be much for family before.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was utterly distracted by the thoughts of the device in his pocket. John hadn't betrayed his trust before when he'd recovered the pink case - hadn't even questioned whether Sherlock was the murderer. He could be trusted with this…

Catlike eyes turned to his flatmate as he pulled the small plastic bag from his coat pocket. The camera was dwarfed by the empty space within. "John, I'll need you to find out what equipment we need to access the data on this."

John's eyes went wide, pulled immediately out of his thoughts. "What? Is that a _camera_?" he asked incredulously. "Where did you get that?" He took the bag from Sherlock and looked it over. He'd only recognized it for what it was when he saw the tiny lens. The rest of it had been stripped down to barely the size of his knuckle. No markings, no manufacturer.

"From the ceiling of the murder scene. It was one of the only nooks with a clear view of the table." He'd been meant to find it. It had to be the second part of the message, another tantalizing hint to goad him on. "The murderer wouldn't be stupid enough to show his face, but it will have other data on it that we can use."

"Wow. And Lestrade missed this, didn't he?" The question was rhetorical. John was going to go along with Sherlock's withholding of evidence. He knew Lestrade would learn about it eventually, and he also knew that it would find better use in Sherlock's hands than in the Yard's. No one there had a keener eye for detail than he did.

When they arrived home, John set to work. He looked it over closely, searching for a product name or number but found none. It was, however, unexpectedly equipped with a micro SD card. "Aha!" John exclaimed, pulling it free. "We'll need something to read this…?"

Sherlock recognized it as the same sort of data chip used in modern cell phones and digital cameras. "John, your Nokia is a smartphone. It should have a slot for this kind of card. If the data was recorded in a standard format, your phone should be able to access it like any other media."

If it corrupted John's phone, Sherlock would buy him a new one. He wasn't going to risk his own.

"Okay, let's see…." John pulled his phone out of his pocket, none the wiser to the danger. Once he'd located the slot and fit the chip in, he sat down at the table, letting Sherlock look over his shoulder.

There was only one video clip. It lasted approximately 15 minutes. John readied himself, and opened it.

Shaking was all they saw at first. The angle of the camera swung left and right and upside down until it settled into place and the dilapidated room from the crime scene came into view. The angle was high on the wall, looking down. The lighting was low, casting half the room in shadow. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the window and left one rectangle of light on the wall opposite. A single desk and chair sat in the middle of the room with the beginnings of a pulley system hanging above it. As John peered in to get a closer look, a figure suddenly stepped back into the frame of view and John pulled back, startled. He wore a ski mask over his face and loose black clothing, with leather gloves that he rubbed together as if comically excited. He must have just set the camera into place because he was looking directly at it while moving into the center of the room.

With a flurry of hands he presented the stage of the murder for the camera, and then began to work. His movements were light, almost bouncing as he went about setting up the contraption above the desk. It was an intricate system that used pulleys and levers that John couldn't follow, but this figure in black made every bit of it just as interesting to watch. He was putting on a performance.

"This is him, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's him." With that gleeful showmanship, it had to be. _This_ was who had snuck into the apartment, multiple times.

Sherlock watched with fascination, taking in every little detail. The man was relatively short, about 5'7", and of slighter build. Obviously dexterous, but it was uncertain whether he earned another livelihood from such skill - he'd taken great care to hide as many details as possible and the quality of the film was too rough besides. Still, there were small gaps in the ski mask for the man's eyes - eyes that shone like smoldering coals set in pale skin.

When the figure on screen was finished, he took a moment to allow them to marvel at his work. Every movement of his body was like a well-executed dance, even as he left the room. It was only for a moment, just long enough to return leading another figure in tow. This man was quite recognizable, though presently his head was still intact. The man in black was smaller, but he managed to lead the other man in without any trouble. It only took a motion of his hand and a gesture toward the chair for the victim to sit. As complacent as he was, it was clear that he was afraid. He was trembling terribly.

Once seated, the masked man gave his shoulder a firm shove from behind and he bent over the table, hands spread beside him. It was the very same position the Met had found him in later. His mouth moved rapidly, but there was no sound in the video and the man in black gave no sign of reaction. 

Pleading, John thought.

When everything was in place, the masked man left the room for a second time. When he returned, he was carrying a chainsaw.

John's stomach dropped. He did not want to watch this. He'd seen men die in front of him, he'd stitched them back together, he'd even been shot himself. He knew what it was like and he did not want to watch it on home video. That had been war. That had been a _fight_. This was execution. Torture. He swallowed, feeling a shiver run through him.

The man on screen hopped up on top of the table, standing above the second man, who made no move to save himself. He could have. He could have easily knocked the murderer off the table right then. He was in the perfect position to do so. Instead, he trembled and wept and pleaded with soundless words.

The chainsaw was hoisted into the contraption above his head and adjusted. Then, with a turn and a coquettish wave to the camera, the man in black ripped its cord back and it came to life.

The man underneath him jumped. His trembling became violent, but he stayed in place while the other leaped off the table. With arms spread wide, he began to move around the scene, displaying it as if it were a fine showcase of jewelry, and when he finally reached the bottom of the contraption, he bent and turned one lever. Slowly, the chainsaw began to lower.

With a wave and a bow, the killer exited the room, leaving his victim to fate.

Sherlock's eyes were glued to the screen. He too had noticed the victim's silent pleading, the terror that shook his limbs even though he made no move to save himself. Sherlock’s expression of fascination never changed, not even when the chainsaw was activated and made its final descent. Watching the decapitation happen didn't give him any more information than examining the crime scene had, although... it had been interesting to note exactly how much and how long the body had twitched before the nerve pathways stopped firing.

He needed to find another device that could read this card. Something that was capable of pausing and zooming in. Something that would allow him to print single frames.

"Shorter man, no more than 5'7", likely caucasian, dark eyes, a taste for the theatrical, likely due to malignant narcissism or sociopathy." It was a start.

John was sitting in a cold sweat. He'd looked away at the end of it. It took him a moment to understand that Sherlock, whose mind must have moved ahead without pause unlike John's, was speaking about the killer.

"That…was completely horrific." John pulled the card out and handed it to Sherlock, not wanting to keep it in his phone. "He didn't even _move_."

"He threatened him with something more powerful than facing a horrific death. Threatening someone dear to him, no doubt. Love and emotional attachments can override survival instincts. If the man had children, a threat to them would add a biological imperative to the mix, although it's true that not every adult has such a drive. It's simply common."

Sherlock accepted the chip from John, closing his fingers around it as he regarded the other man. He frowned, wondering why John was so shaken. They'd seen a number of dead bodies together. John had seen combat in Afghanistan, and likely had also seen patients die under his knife. He'd shot a man during their first case together.

"Is that why it bothered you, John? That he didn't struggle?" Sherlock's eyes were clear and serene with a lingering spark of excitement - he might as well have just watched a video on new technological breakthroughs in forensic chemistry.

John let out a breath. "Obviously didn't bother you any," he said, trying to lighten his own mood. He gave a small nod. "I guess so. He didn't even have a chance."

John looked at Sherlock, forcing himself to put the execution out of his mind. His lips twitched up. "Did I just hear you admit that love, _sentiment_ , can trump survival?"

Sherlock blinked. "Obviously. Emotions tend not to be rational and also have a tendency to override logic. There's ample opportunity to observe this in human psychology."

Honestly, sometimes Sherlock just didn't understand John. Only a moment before he'd been distraught about the content of the camera, and now he looked genuinely curious about some of the simplest behavioral motivations that existed.

And then John's expression drooped again. "Guess that's one way to look at it." He'd preferred to think of this man's love, if that’s what it was, as the strength that gave him the will to do the impossible. John couldn't know if that had actually been the case, nor whether his sacrifice had made a difference. But that spoke to him.

Sherlock instead chose to see it as the weakness that ended the victim's life.

Sherlock frowned again, not understanding his flatmate's rapid mood swings. "That's not the perspective you prefer." It wasn't even a question - he could read as much from the gloomy lines that had crept in at the corners of John's eyes and mouth.

Perhaps it was because John was a doctor. He always tried to spin things with a positive outlook, even after experiencing the horrors of war. Sherlock tilted his head, trying to catch John's gaze and find the cause of his displeasure.

John noticed he was being inspected and met Sherlock's gaze. "No, it's not."

Sherlock's eyes made John feel like he was being dissected. He turned away after a moment and cleared his throat. Something about that gaze made him uncomfortable. "Let's just find killer, shall we?"

"I'm planning on finding him as soon as possible." John still looked distressed and now he was averting his eyes. That didn't bode well.

John was a creature of physical comforts, even though he denied himself out of minimalistic habit where his bedroom and belongings were concerned. One could read it in his choice of clothing, the way he relaxed into a chair, the warm delight he took in simple foods and a well-brewed cup of tea. Sherlock stretched out a hand and let it settle on John's shoulder, hoping some amount of consolation was found in the gesture. "...I'll find him, John."

That brought John's gaze back. His eyes warmed with Sherlock's touch, something so small, yet a gesture so rare from Sherlock that it was a gift. John craved the gift without realizing it. He hadn’t even known he’d been wanting it.

"Good." He licked his lips and hoped Sherlock could see the gratitude in that word.

Sherlock's gaze dropped to John's mouth and followed the movement, fascinated. For someone possessing such ordinary intelligence, his flatmate was unusually interesting. John’s mild oral fixation was just one of many habits that Sherlock found that he enjoyed observing.

A movement under his fingertips made Sherlock realize he'd tightened his grip without realizing it; John had shifted underneath the jumper at the unexpected pressure. Sherlock quickly relaxed his fingers and, after a moment's consideration, withdrew his hand. He felt oddly uncomfortable, yet couldn't pinpoint exactly why.

They sat like that for a moment more, neither quite sure what to say. Finally, John swallowed. "I'll make us some tea," he announced. He left Sherlock at the table and headed into the kitchen to put on a pot. While there he leaned against the sink and rubbed his shoulder. It had been a little rough at the end.

Watching the water boil, John found it hard not to think back to the man they'd watched on video. There was an air about him, one of control, of confidence and power. Whenever they flashed at the camera, his dark eyes had been intense. John couldn't tell his height and weight and background from what he'd seen, but he _could_ tell that the man enjoyed running the show. The taunting, flirtatious way he went about it made him seem nearly inhuman.

Sherlock listened to the quiet sounds in the kitchen, and just like John’s, his mind ran back over the images he'd just seen. The killer had wanted Sherlock's attention, and he certainly had it now. Between the violation of the flat, the theft of the watch, the tongueless messenger and his video performance, it all added up to a type of criminal Sherlock had never had the pleasure of dealing with before.

He was someone of intelligence and means. He'd draw this out and make it as interesting as possible.

Dangerous as it was with the murderer having a personal fixation on him, Sherlock knew he was going to enjoy this.

When John came back with cups of steaming tea, he set one down beside Sherlock, then slipped into his chair and put his feet up on the stool, knowing he wouldn't get anything productive done if he tried. Not with his thoughts as occupied as they were. Instead he leaned back and tried to clear his mind, tried to find peace.

John recalled standing in the lamp lit sidewalk of Baker Street… with Sherlock telling him he could ask for things if he wanted to.

"Would you play something?"

The request dragged Sherlock away from his reveries, grounding him back in reality. "...if you wish. Did you have something in particular in mind, or did you want me to choose? I'm afraid I don't really feel like jazz tonight." Sherlock smiled briefly at John, hoping the admission didn't discourage him.

John shook his head, eyes closed. "You go ahead." He would be happy with just about anything. Usually he liked whatever Sherlock played whenever he set his mind to it. John rested his hands in his lap, letting the warmth of his tea cup radiate heat into him. The afternoon light coming in through the window beside him helped. He could feel the sun on his eyelids, warm even on a cool autumn day.

Sherlock nodded and rose to his feet. He took his time removing the violin from its case and tuning it, thinking over the repertoire he had to choose from.

He sighed and began plucking strings, deciding he'd just play what came to mind. After setting the tempo and key, he shut his eyes and let a melody come to him.

John sank into it immediately as the bow descended over strings.

After another minute, it felt like water beneath his body, lifting him up over rolling waves. Across the ocean he floated, still in his sitting room armchair, swaying to and fro with the rolling notes. High trills dove and edged downward through the scale, sinking deep into John's chest as they went. 

He was on a ship made of upholstery and Sherlock was its captain, leading John on a voyage of his choosing. It was a well of emotion they navigated through, never too fast, always steady, always deliberate.

John found it neither wholly sad, nor completely cheery, but instead drifting somewhere, everywhere, in between. The day's events passed before his eyelids, but he could look at them objectively. He did not have to relive them. They only stayed for a moment before they were swept away again in a well of sound.

Sherlock ended one song and flowed smoothly into the next, the key still minor without quite being melancholy. He lost track of time with the music, his cup of tea growing cold on the table behind him, forgotten. He was only vaguely aware that there was another presence in the room. Music swallowed him completely, reaching around the barriers of his conscious mind to tap into places he only indulged in this way.

When Sherlock finally let the bow leave the strings and opened his eyes, the afternoon sun had changed position and now warmed his skin at a different angle through the window.

To his side, John still sat in his chair. He hadn't moved the whole time, feet still crossed over one another atop the stool, tea still sitting folded between his hands on his lap. His head had drifted to one side, resting against his shoulder. His breathing was even. John was fast asleep.

Sherlock put away his violin quietly, taking the opportunity to observe his flatmate without causing the discomfort it normally did when he was awake. John didn't project his soldier's stoicism nor his doctor's empathy when unconscious; his expression was open and unguarded, the lines in his face telling a story of all the places life had taken him. He looked endearingly fragile.

Sherlock pondered for a moment, then delicately removed the cup and saucer from John's hands. He must have been exhausted; he only stirred slightly at the movement, rather than waking. Sherlock deposited the cup on the table beside his ruined one and snatched a spare blanket from one of the stacks of dusty boxes sitting in a corner. He draped it over John's still form, smiling quietly as he absconded to the sofa with the man's laptop.

The detective started up the web browser and began researching. He wanted to know exactly what he needed to get the relevant data off of that card.

John stirred every now and again. His hands folded around his arms. He turned into the side of the chair. Eventually, he even started drooling a bit.

The laptop's internet history was a string of John's blog, a few of his followers' blogs, email, and porn. Nothing out of the ordinary. He'd given up on deleting his history since he'd forgotten the first couple times Sherlock had used the computer, and he couldn't figure out how to delete the URL and saved form searches anyway, which were just as incriminating regarding the porn.

Once Sherlock obtained the information he wanted, he browsed through the computer's history out of curiosity. John's tastes and habits were fairly predictable, although Sherlock occasionally found unexpected things. Hidden amongst this week's stream of blogs, erotic pictures of women, and free pornographic movie clips, there was a hit for a gay photography gallery.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and shut down the computer. Upon a moment's contemplation he rose and fetched his coat yet again. There was no telling when word of M's next crime would come, but when it did he would have little time to waste shopping for electronics.

While he was bustling about, John gave a sniff from the chair and opened his eyes. He blinked, still heavy lidded, watching Sherlock get ready. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but it had been so peaceful. He looked out the window, noticing the sun was already low in the sky. He must have been out for an hour or two at least.

"Where are you going?"

"Shopping. We can only watch the video on your phone, not manipulate it. I'm going to get a reader that can transfer the data to the laptop." Sherlock knotted his scarf around his neck and tucked it in. "You can continue to sleep if you need it."

"Mmm…" John yawned and stretched his back up like a cat. "No, I'm up." He knew he'd have trouble sleeping later if he let himself now. And, he needed to get in touch with Rich Brook. He'd been putting that off amid the events of the chainsaw murder. He pulled himself up and moved over to the couch. "Using my laptop, I see."

"You complain about it, but you never really mean it. If you really wanted to keep me off of it, you'd change the password to something more difficult. Since you haven't changed it in weeks, that constitutes permission," Sherlock replied with a slight smile. "Are you accompanying me, or should I leave you to your blogging and your photos?"

John gave Sherlock a _look_ that said he was not amused. "I'll stay in with the photos, thanks." Sherlock probably had a point with the password, but he was also _Sherlock_ and John knew there was little point in trying to keep him out of anything. As irony would have it, _he_ never could find out what _Sherlock_ searched for with his computer.

Sherlock gave one last smirk and ducked out the door. A few creaks of the stairs and the scrape of another door and he was out on the street. 

When Sherlock was gone, John did a cursory check of his email and then set about writing up a letter to Richard. Sherlock had set plans to tour the studio, but no date. John warned Rich that they were on a new case and any time they scheduled could be subject to change. He had a feeling the actor-come-producer would understand, given the nature of their work. He also made sure to thank Rich and the rest of the crew for the night out. It remained in John's mind as one of the better nights he'd had going out since living in this part of London. That category didn't include Sherlock's cases of course. Sherlock tended not to go "out" very often.

John sent the message. He browsed the web for a bit to see if their latest case had hit the media yet. It hadn't.

He got up to make supper and found they were out of biscuits. Tea and coffee were decently stocked, but he was hungry and only belatedly did he realize that he'd left the rest of his sandwich from this morning in his coat pocket John winced, pulling it out and tossing it away. He was acquiring a bad habit of forgetting things like that in the excitement of their investigations.

Deciding it was worth a short walk, he grabbed his coat and a light pair of gloves and headed off to the deli.

When John returned to the flat with new sandwich and chips in hand, he didn't notice anything amiss at first. He deposited his coat on the chair he usually draped it over and sat back down on the couch. He'd ordered almost the same thing Sherlock bought for him that morning, and he found it a little funny. It wasn't until he was halfway through supper that he noticed something unusual.

Lying just behind a throw pillow next to him was the butt of a gun. John's brows furrowed. He pulled it out thinking it was his own at first, but once he had it in his hand, he realized it wasn't.

"Sherlock?" he called through the apartment. He hadn't thought his flatmate was back yet, but he must have been mistaken. He went to Sherlock's bedroom and knocked. No answer. "Sherlock?" He opened the door slowly.

There, lying on the bed, were six other matching firearms and no Sherlock to be seen.

* * *

Sherlock flagged down another cab at the street corner. The transportation costs today had been atrocious; if it kept up over the next few days with whatever M had up his sleeve, he might actually have to take a case purely for monetary reasons.

He completed his errand with mechanical efficiency, completely ignoring the sale clerk's attempts to interest him in more expensive gadgets or maintenance plan scams. Sherlock pocketed the reader and checked his phone - still no news.

He briefly considered seeking out one of the nodes of the homeless network, then discarded it. He didn't have enough information to give them yet. Until he had a better description of the type of man he was looking for or knew what sort of victims he targeted it would be worthless to draw on his contacts for assistance in the hunt.

He opened his wallet, counted over the remaining pound notes, and decided that the flat wasn't that far of a walk after all.

Sherlock let his mind wander as he went. Humanity flowed around him, the same colorful display that came close but never quite touched him. He, like his brother and others who had inherited the family traits, were always watching the clockwork from the outside. They could reach in every once in a while and interact with that cog and that spring, manipulate pieces and events, but they didn't really fit in the machine.

John was unique in that he had weathered Sherlock's personality so well and for so long. Mycroft had already embraced the traditional way such things were handled. Sherlock would be lucky enough to find another one of their rare psychological kind, accept a brief and relatively loveless marriage for the sake of continuing the line, or accept a solitary life studded with brief fancies and distractions. The extended family had always assumed, with Sherlock's lack of control and history of trauma, that he would fall firmly into the third category.

Sherlock was only now beginning to wonder if there was a fourth option.

On his way home, his thoughts turned from the tangle of his friendship with John Watson to the criminal who was so fixated on him.

He was going to have to be very careful on this case. It went without saying that there was some amount of physical danger inherent in his lifestyle, but being the focus would only amplify it. If M was as good as Sherlock suspected, there was a minute chance that he could get killed, or endanger others around him.

M also posed another type of peril, no less risky than the possibility of injury and death. If Sherlock was correct, he and M were somewhat alike. Empathy wouldn't touch them the same way it did other people. Whereas Sherlock and the rest of the family members like him blended in with the rest of society and functioned as well as they could, M had obviously rejected this paradigm. If they got too close, even normally unobservant individuals might draw troublesome conclusions. Conclusions with consequences Sherlock would rather not have to deal with.

Finally back at his front doorstep, Sherlock turned the key in the lock and tramped up the stairs to 221B.

John was sitting on the couch when Sherlock got in. His supper lay forgotten on the coffee table. A handgun sat next to it. John was staring down at it, arms crossed and resting on his knees, hunched in contemplation. He looked up, and there were signs that he'd been worrying his bottom lip between his teeth judging by the color of it.

"I found these while you were out." His tone was blunt, but not harsh. "There's six more in your room."

Sherlock frowned, not certain what to prioritize as more upsetting - the fact that he'd missed his visitor, or that his privacy had been invaded yet again.

"...you went into my room." The guns were a puzzle, the start of the next phase of the game. Sherlock could handle inanimate objects, especially when they brought him one step closer to finding the culprit. Yet, knowing his flatmate had poked around in his room was more troubling.

John looked contrite at that. "Yes, well, when I found this sitting on the couch, I thought you'd been in, but I couldn't find you."

He'd thought Sherlock put it there. And, most of the time he understood personal space and left Sherlock's room well enough alone when the man wasn't home, but John was a little flustered that Sherlock didn’t understand that _finding a strange gun lying around was a reasonable cause to breach personal space._ He hadn't even gone through anything. "They're just sitting there out in the open." And then a thought struck John through the fluster of his apologies because Sherlock sounded much more annoyed than concerned. "Wait. _Did_ you put them there?"

"No. I only just got home. Why did you go into my room if you thought I was responsible?" Surely John could see that if he'd wanted to ask about it, he could have just knocked to check if Sherlock was at home.

"Because I thought you were _there_." John was moving quickly from flustered to indignant. And all Sherlock seemed to care about was why John had opened the door, as though he…. Well. As though he had something to hide. Which John knew not to be the case, yet Sherlock was treating him like _he_ was the intruder. "Do you not realize that if it wasn't you, then obviously someone _else_ has been in your room?"

"Two someones, yes, both of which are uncomfortable. You do realize that if I was there, I would have answered?" Sherlock knew it was irrational to direct the brunt of his anger at John. He knew it, but he'd always been territorial and possessive.

Sherlock took a deep breath, then another. Perhaps another approach would work. "If you'd found him while he was still here, John, he would not have spared you. You're not the one he wants."

John's expression turned stony. He glared up at Sherlock beneath drawn brows. "…are you saying you don't _trust_ me, or are you saying you're _worried_ about me?" While the latter was true enough and the killer would have surprised John had he still been in Sherlock's room, John could tell that had certainly not been the first thing on Sherlock's mind.

"Both," Sherlock snapped, fists clenching at his sides. That wasn't quite true, but Sherlock hadn't been able to resist the impulse to lash out, even if only in verbal form. "I prefer you to be living and unharmed, and I also prefer my space to be left alone."

John's jaw clenched. He let the anger wash through him, knowing that he could force it down if he just gave himself a moment. Because after all, this was Sherlock, and what did John really expect? "Right. Well. I'm sorry for that." He wasn't totally. He knew his motives had been sincere and, in another scenario, had he been too timid to breach his flatmate's personal space, any number of _very bad things_ might have happened. However, he _was_ sorry for upsetting Sherlock, and embarrassed that it made his motives look suspect. "I didn't think….I mean, I didn't do it to snoop. I do trust you, you know."

Sherlock, likewise, had to remind himself that this was John. While he might be convincing with others, he was terrible at trying to lie to Sherlock. He'd showed anger and frustration, but none of the tell-tale signs that he wasn't telling the truth.

Sherlock sighed. "No, you're not sorry. You also obviously don't understand why I'm angry." He forced his hands to unclench; confrontation wouldn't help, and he had evidence to attend to. "I know you trust me."

John bit his lip, but some of the heat in his eyes softened. Sherlock was right in that he didn't understand. He felt like a parent whose child had thrown a fit for stepping foot in their room, even if he didn’t particularly like that analogy. Perhaps that was it, perhaps Sherlock's perception of their arrangement was slightly different than his own. He didn't know how to see through Sherlock's eyes. He nodded in concession. "However these got here, it happened in the ten minutes it took for me to walk down the street and back."

Sherlock stepped closer to the windows as soon as the words left John's mouth. A quick scan of the street revealed nothing. "He'll be nearby, then. He won't have left the area, he'll want to see what I do."

"Stay away from the windows, John," he added, turning to head back to his room. Sherlock didn't know how safe his flatmate might be from M - the latter might very well decide John was a threat to their game, or shoot him out of boredom to up the stakes. "I'll be back with the weapons."

John eyed the windows in the room from his position on the couch. He let Sherlock go without further comment. 

John thought maybe they should close the curtains if that were the case, but he wasn't sure if cocooning themselves in the flat would make him feel any more secure. For a brief time he had hoped that it had been Sherlock who'd left the guns there, that he had somehow failed to notice the one on the couch earlier and that no one at all had sneaked in while he wasn't looking. Now it felt like their space was open to the world.

Sherlock took a moment to inspect how the guns had been laid out, searching for a pattern. When none was apparent, he took one of the spare blankets and carefully moved the guns onto it for transport. Nothing else in the room appeared to have been disturbed, either by their visitor or his flatmate.

He briefly contemplated setting a trap on the door... but M would easy see through it and John would most likely leave the room alone now that he knew it was a sore point.

Sherlock carried the bundle of weapons back out to the living room, depositing it on the table. Smiling to himself, he crossed to the windows one more time and drew the curtains. If M wanted the satisfaction of watching them, he'd be disappointed tonight.

"So…why would someone leave a pile of handguns on your bed?" John asked, moving to the table. He turned the overhead lamp on to get a better look. All were the same make and model...standard, familiar. None were new that he could see, and they looked to be in good condition. "Is it a message?"

They _were_ all familiar. "Standard issue for Scotland Yard," Sherlock murmured, using the edge of the blanket to turn them over. The serial numbers were all still intact. He leaned closer - sure enough, there was a lingering scent of gunpowder near the barrels. These had been used recently.

"John, check the news." He was already digging his mobile out of his pocket. He'd call Lestrade if he had to.

John grabbed the remote and switched on the telly. A breaking story was taking place.

_"Neighbors say the only thing they heard was the sound of a gunshot. Neither his wife nor children saw the attack, although they were present. Currently they are safe in the care of their friends on the force,” said a reporter standing on a darkened street. “The only statement they've given so far is one of shock and incomprehension. Officer Shaun Brixton had been a welcoming neighbor, a caring husband, and a loving father…."_

John lowered his hands to his lap, clutching the remote.

_"This marks the third consecutive slaying of a Met police officer tonight. At present, this is the only connection police have managed to find between victims, and no known suspect has been announced."_

The faces of three men appeared as the reporter named the three victims.

Sherlock froze, listening intently to the commentary issuing from the telly. He _wouldn't_... but, of course, he _had_. And now Sherlock had to figure out _why._

Seven murder weapons, all placed in their flat right after the killings. Only three had been found so far, but the number of guns told Sherlock that there would be more. He wouldn't be able to bring the guns to the forensics lab for analysis, wouldn't be able to let Lestrade or the other officers know he had them at all... because where was the proof that they'd been placed there?

John may have already touched more than one of the guns, and M would have been clever enough to avoid leaving any evidence on them. Donovan had already begun planting doubt in the minds of other officers lately. A large number of people at the Yard would accept the theory that Sherlock had committed the murders all too willingly. It would lead to unacceptable situations.

"John, we have a problem."

John turned to Sherlock, who was sitting very still, gazing at the telly. He looked at the guns on the table, then back to the faces on the screen. "You….don't think these….?" Even he could see where this was going, that someone had just dumped murder weapons in their flat.

Behind them, the reporter continued. The three officers had known each other, had worked together often even if they hadn't been in the same division. There were questions of a vendetta of some sort, but mostly she talked about their families, their careers, and how the murders had shocked the Met citywide.

"We've got the guns of every dead officer, all of which were used in the murders." Whether the officers had any connection was unknown, as was the number of victims, but seven was the classic number signifying perfection. "We have no proof of how they got here, other than our word, and Scotland Yard hasn't exactly been keen to take mine lately. Depending on whether you touched the guns in my room," he said, giving John a pointed look. "The only new prints on at least one of these guns is yours."

John also had a military background, which included impressive accuracy with firearms, and a diagnosis of PTSD. Bit not good - investigators and jury alike would latch onto those facts and eat them up. Military veterans gone round the bend always made for a juicy media story.

John swallowed and shifted uncomfortably. "Only touched the one." He felt a sinking sensation and looked to Sherlock. "So this is a setup then? If we don't find the real killer, they'll think we did it?" Lestrade would call them and they'd have to go in, all the while with these back in their flat. John had to wonder if they could tell him.

"That's what it looks like. Double-edged sword - keep them to help catch the real murderer and risk being framed, or dispose of them and possibly lose the only clues we’re going to get. Perhaps even cause M to declare it a forfeit, which will have unpleasant consequences."

He locked eyes with John, his face emotionless as he tried to follow several trains of thought at once. "You've lied convincingly once before, when you shot that cabbie. You may need to lie again soon, John. I won't permit either of us to be framed."

"That was…" That was saving Sherlock's life. Then again, so might this be. John nodded. "I can do that." He could do that to save Sherlock again. According to Sherlock's theory, seven guns meant seven dead men. There was no saving them, and Sherlock was innocent.

They had to wonder if this M left anything for Sherlock to follow, or if he was all on his own this time as Gasper's message suggested.

Sherlock's phone buzzed.

"We just saw the news report. We'll be right there." He hung up before Greg could get another word in edgewise, staring at the guns on the table for a long moment.

He couldn't get rid of them, not on the off chance that they were to be his _only_ clues. On the other hand, he couldn't leave them out in the open, not with the distinct possibility that some "anonymous tipster" might call in a lead on one consulting detective.

Sherlock's eyes grew hard as he quickly rose and snatched a pair of latex gloves from one of his experimental messes in the kitchen. There was nothing else for it. John was going to ask ugly questions, but that was better than jail.

"If you're worried about your ability to lie convincingly, John, you may want to shut your eyes."

"Uhm. What?" Of all the things he'd expected Sherlock to say, closing his eyes had not been one of them. He turned in his chair to watch curiously as Sherlock moved around the flat. 

Although John was in fact fairly confident in his ability to keep a straight face, there was no way he would be able to ignore whatever Sherlock was doing now.

Sherlock dragged the sofa away from the wall and carefully flipped it over. His fingers found hidden hooks in the fabric and pulled a flap open, revealing wood. The panel slid aside and a small cloth-wrapped parcel was extracted. Sherlock grabbed one of the guns from the table and stuck it in the newly emptied cache, sealing everything back up and returning the sofa to its original position.

Grabbing another gun, he moved to the fireplace. Something was pressed and one of the red tiles popped open slightly, swinging on a hidden hinge. Another object, this time a box, was removed and replaced with a gun.

Ignoring John's open-mouthed stares, Sherlock grabbed a third firearm and headed into the bathroom.

John got up and followed. He couldn't help it. "What on earth _is_ all this stuff?"

Although he had to admit that this was a good idea, he would never have guessed their flat was littered with secret compartments filled with stashes of who-knew-what.

"Better if you don't ask, John." There was another compartment in the side panel of the linen closet. This contained a small but surprisingly airtight plastic box encased in a sealed plastic bag. What sounded like glass vials rattled within as Sherlock swapped the gun for the box, closing the hiding spot and rearranging the linens again. He carried the box back out as he went to get another gun.

John followed at his heels all the while. Awestruck as he was, there was no way he was going to let Sherlock _not tell him_. And for that matter, how many of these hiding places _were_ there? They had seven guns and they'd already concealed three.

The next trip was to the kitchen. One of the dark green tiles near the kitchen sink turned out to be another cubbyhole. Another stash was removed so a gun could be placed. This one appeared to be a cloth roll of knives or some other small, easily concealable metallic weaponry - small metal hilts and edges peeked out from the black cloth. This too was escorted back to the living room.

Grabbing two guns, Sherlock headed towards his bedroom. "Stay put."

John waited in the hall, not needing to be told twice after their argument concerning Sherlock's room. He felt guilty standing there, seeing this. It was a paradox…he felt somehow sorry that Sherlock should have to reveal these hidden things in front of him, coupled with trespassing in Sherlock's room, when he obviously did not want to…but on the other hand, John had been living with them all this while in a flat that was partly _his_ without his knowledge. 

Whatever Sherlock kept hidden, John had the feeling it wasn't innocent.

Sherlock wasn't gone for long. Doubtlessly he had at least two hiding spots in his room because he returned with more odd parcels instead of the guns. He frowned at the pile he now had on the desk. It was all more stuff that had to be gotten rid of immediately, but far safer than trying to dump murder weapons and move forward investigating without evidence.

Grabbing the last gun, Sherlock moved up the stairs towards John's room.

"Hey, Sherlock?" John peered around the corner of the hall. When no response came, he jogged up after his flatmate. "You do know I don't have any hiding places up there, right? We can't keep that up there." John kept his own gun in his room, and he hadn't ever thought to hide it any better than the bottom his sock drawer. ….he may have to rethink that decision.

Sherlock ignored him, walking right into his room. He opened the closet door, taking a thin knife out of his pocket. The detective inserted it into a nearly-invisible crack, prying loose a section that had been fitted with magnets to hold it in place. Reaching into the hole and downward into the hollow section of the door, he brought up another cloth bundle. Unwrapping the glass vials full of powder it had been protecting, Sherlock wrapped the gun and stowed it away. The magnets clicked the panel back into place and, unless you knew exactly where to look, the door looked perfectly ordinary.

John stood, jaw slack, in the doorway.

Sherlock kept a hidden, secret stash of his _stuff_ in _John's door_. After _everything_ they had just went through with Sherlock's room, this had been there the whole time. Sherlock had just strolled into John's space whenever he wanted, hid things wherever he wanted, did _whatever the fuck he wanted_ with John's personal space _without John's knowing_ and then had the _gall_ to tell him off for invading Sherlock’s space. _And for a perfectly legitimate reason._

"…are you serious?" It was all John could say. 

His hands found the sides of the doorframe, holding himself between it. He couldn't move otherwise. He had no words, his face unable to settle upon the right expression. Pure disbelief was all he could muster. "Are you _fucking serious?_ "

"I'd rather not hide them all too close together. It's difficult to have a number of spaces large enough where different weight distribution won't be noticed." Sherlock made it sound so... matter of fact. As if it were perfectly reasonable to have installed secret compartments in your flatmate's bedchamber.

That was, perhaps, the key to it. For Sherlock, it _was_ obvious; he was inherently selfish and regarded the flat as his, not theirs. His bedroom was personal and private, while John's was an extension of public space.

Sherlock made to exit the room only to find John still firmly gripping the frame, unmoving. "John, I need to get rid of some things so we can go."

He received one of the deadliest glares John had ever given.

The army doctor planted his feet beneath him, body suddenly tensing from simply short to compact. He was not budging. " _Sherlock_ …." John began, and had to stop, swallow, force himself calm, before he could continue. "You have been _hiding_ things. In my room. _Without my knowledge. Or permission._ After we JUST, _just_ talked about me not going into your room." John paused, fighting to keep his words even. "Do you see a problem here?"

Sherlock blinked, confusion alight on his features. "You hadn't noticed and had voiced no complaint to my presence before. Our rent does allow us to utilize the whole space, even if we're stretching beyond the boundaries as they're normally imagined."

Sherlock's thin frame tensed unconsciously in response to John's stance. He was prepared to grapple him if John lost his senses for a moment and tried to strike him.

John's bark of laughter was harsh. "You _are_ serious!" There was no mirth in his voice at all. "Let me explain this to you in simple terms." All of a sudden he regained use of his hands. They gestured wildly to emphasize his words because maybe, just maybe, if John could make enough of a show to hold Sherlock's attention for _ten seconds_ something might sink in. "I do not have a problem with you _going into my room_. I never did. What I _do_ have a problem with is you _hiding your stash of whatever the hell all this is IN MY ROOM._ You didn't bother to ask my permission. You didn't see fit to warn me at all. And to top it off, you _freak out_ when I _dare_ to set foot in your room!" His voice had risen with his hand gestures until he was just short of shouting.

Sherlock's normally catlike eyes had grown wide with surprise as John yelled and gesticulated, ducking backwards when his flatmate's hand came close to connecting with his face. "I thought you wouldn't want to know about it," he admitted, knowing very well how much John hated having to lie... and how strongly he felt about illegal substances. Most of them were not for personal recreational use, it was true, and he had been clean for a little over two years now. It had seemed more prudent to solve both problems by simply not informing John about all of his belongings and their exact locations.

" _No!_ " John's hands found their way to his hair, fingers gripping and winding themselves in the short strands. "I would have wanted to know something like that! I am responsible for what goes into this flat too, especially my own room! Jesus. If Lestrade found that on one of his "drugs busts"…? And. God. _Double standards_ , Sherlock!" His palms folded over his face, eyes closed, taking deep breaths, desperately trying to calm himself.

Once comparatively composed, John let his hands fall. "We're going to go downstairs now. And you're going to tell me what all this stuff is." Then added, "Lestrade can wait five minutes."

Sherlock scanned John for a moment, considering simply taking the things and leaving. No, even if he could manage it, that would get messy - either right away or later. John wouldn't find it acceptable; he'd try to keep him from leaving and, once he returned, want to fight about it anyways.

Sherlock sighed. Of two unpleasant choices, it was only logical to pick the less painful, much as he'd rather avoid it. "Fine. We still have to get rid of it all before we go." Another inconvenience. It would be bothersome to reacquire everything after the case was solved and the danger had passed.

"Good. Then you can show me what it all is on the way." John let out one last breath and headed down the stairs. He grabbed his coat and looked around. He wasn't experienced in disposing illegal items while making sure they couldn't be tracked back to him or his flatmate. A few ideas came to mind, most of them involved taking them far, far away from Baker Street and tossing them. He sighed and turned, exasperated, to Sherlock. "Just…how are we going to do this anyway?"

"Most of the chemicals can be simply washed down the drain. Except the cadaverine, we need to dump that in a sewer when we get a chance. The knives and the plastics can be tossed in the river."

Sherlock reluctantly grabbed several portions of his stash from the living room table, bringing it into the kitchen and setting it on the counter. Opening everything and setting up an assembly line for disposal, he turned on the tap and began mechanically identifying each substance as he washed it down the drain.

"Citric acid, ephedrine, gamma-hydroxybutyrate, rohypnol, methylenedioxy-methamphetamine, dexedrine, ketamine, salvia divinorum, arsenic, dextromethorphan, phencyclidine..."

It was a laundry list of dangerous, lab restricted chemicals, compounds that could be used to create illegal substances, and _the full-on illegal drugs themselves_. Sherlock ended the recitation with "cocaine hydrochloride, 7% solution," upending several vials into the sink. He let the water run for a few moments before shutting it off and grabbing a rubbish bag from the cupboard.

John was sitting at the kitchen table at that point, his head in his hands, eyes glued to every vial Sherlock poured down the sink. _Cadaverine? Cocaine?_ Truth be told, it could be comparable to finding a human head in the refrigerator, but at least Sherlock had been up front with that. And, John knew it came from Molly. And, John _knew what it was for_. Well, Sherlock had told him something about the coagulation of saliva….

With every vial disposed of, John felt like he'd narrowly escaped some horrible fate. He wondered whether that was rational or not. What would have happened had they been found by Lestrade? Sherlock had talked and deduced his way out of plenty before. Would this really have been any different? And yet, Sherlock went to great lengths to hide all this. That alone made John uneasy. If Sherlock was worried, then he was worried.

And now they had murder weapons to replace the drugs. 

Dumping the newly emptied containers into the bag, Sherlock tied it shut and went to collect the rest of of the things from the table. The rest seemed to consist of various laboratory and drug-related paraphernalia, illegal blades, and the vial of cadaverine. And a small, very small brick of plastic explosives.

"Ready to leave?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have so much fic and not enough time to edit it. *sob* So sorry for the lateness.


	7. Chapter 7

"Yeah. Yeah, let's go." John was running on autopilot now. He rose, grabbed his keys and gave the kitchen a quick once-over to make sure they hadn't missed anything. He shut off the lights and locked the door behind them as they left, for all the good it did. 221b might as well have been open to the public as far as he was concerned.

Sherlock led them on a winding path down side streets instead of immediately flagging a cab. The plastic bag of empty containers was surreptitiously dropped down a sewer grate a few blocks away, once they were safely hidden from view. That accomplished, he began picking his way back towards a main roadway.

They'd have to take a cab to the river, dump the rest, then take a new cab to the Yard. Sherlock didn't want to risk the same cabbie witnessing a suspicious disposal.

John fell in step with him the whole way. He had to move quickly to keep up with Sherlock's long legs, but he was determined.

Their walk was silent. Even when Sherlock hailed a cab for the river, they barely spoke. John stared ahead while they rode, neither looking at Sherlock nor gazing out the window. Lights from the street washed over him intermittently, lighting up his face but he only had eyes for their destination.

Sherlock told the cabbie to let them out a few blocks away from the river, out of sheer paranoia. He didn't feel like taking any chances at the moment, not with the way M was meddling in his life and, by extension, John's.

He walked in silence with John for a few minutes. The shorter man was still holding himself stiffly, gazing straight ahead and moving with all the mindlessness of an automaton. "...you want to know why, but you're not asking. You don't think I'm going to tell you the truth. You're wondering if I've been secretly using and you simply haven't noticed, and you're upset that I've kept information from you at all," he murmured as they worked their way down to the riverbank.

John let it go for a beat, then bit his lips together. "Let's not forget double standards." Because yes, he _was_ worried about all those things, and while he liked to believe Sherlock had kept the illegal substances for other purposes, crime solving purposes, he'd needlessly hidden them from John. That implied guilt. That implied he might be using them for his own more _recreational_ purposes. "Why did you hide them from me?" John asked, eyes forward.

"I wasn't certain you would understand, given your history with your sister. Having a substance abuser as direct blood kin would naturally make you cautious and disinclined to believe denials of substance use until given proof over a long, observable period."

They descended a flight of concrete stairs, bringing them closer to the water. Sherlock shot John a look of discomfort. "Knowing about it would have just caused you unnecessary stress and unhappiness, both of which would have, and now _will_ , take a while to dissipate. It also would have made it difficult for you to plausibly deny knowledge of their existence in the flat should they ever manage to be found."

He dropped the first weighted bundle over the edge, watching the ripples in the water. "I kept the majority of the materials for comparison purposes when testing evidence. I can't always get access to Molly's lab, much less to rarer or more restricted materials." A pause, another parcel dropped over the side. "...a few were for security, just... in case," he added softly. It was a difficult thing to admit. It had been dangerous to have the vials so close at hand, a temptation as well as a comfort.

"What kind of security?"

John let Sherlock make his case without interruption. He didn't seem to understand that allowing for a bit of discomfort in the beginning would have saved them a _lot_ of discomfort now. He may have been right, John would have watched him carefully had he known about the chemicals…The other items were dangerous, but the chemicals especially so. Maybe he _would_ have had to earn John's trust if that had been the case. But that still left the question of Sherlock's trust in _him._

"You won't understand, both because you haven't experienced such things and because of what you've likely witnessed with Harry. Having alcohol in the house wouldn't be viewed as being safe, or as a psychological comfort from sheer knowledge that it's there, unused. The assumption would be that either she had started to abuse alcohol again or would soon, because sheer proximity would be an irresistible temptation."

Sherlock threw the last bundle over the side and stuck his hands in his coat pockets, walking back up towards the street proper.

John caught him by the arm, forcing them to a stop.

"Look…." He gathered his bearings. "You didn't think I would trust you. I get that, and I get why. And you'd probably be right, I would have been uneasy with it." John swallowed, self-conscious over his next words. "But…you didn't trust me either. You didn't trust me enough to _let_ me understand this. So you hid it from me." His lips tightened to a thin line. His eyes weren't angry anymore, just imploring.

Sherlock looked hard at the concrete beneath his feet, up at the streetlamps, finally letting his gaze slide to John. "Yes." Confusion filled his eyes as he took in the small signs John was giving off, the look hastily clamped down on and buried. "Normally I can predict people with a great deal of accuracy. Somehow, you're consistently surprising."

John gave a sudden little laugh. Then the corner of his mouth quirked up and he was looking at Sherlock, really looking hard at him, perfectly still. And then John laughed again. And again. Softly, until it became something close to his usual bemused tone. That one little sentence, that one admission from Sherlock somehow had the power turn his perspective around, just enough. He let the laughter die, and squeezed Sherlock's arm before letting go. "Then I'm glad." He nodded, looking back to the path. "Just…try to remember that next time."

Sherlock nodded, relieved and trying not to show it. He couldn't help the small smile that curved one side of his mouth, though. "I'll try not to delete it. I'm certain you'll remind me if I do," he replied, knowing that John would recognize the teasing for what it was.

“Oh, you can count on it,” John replied matter-of-factly.

The memory of the pressure on Sherlock’s arm was distracting as they sought out a second cab to take them the rest of the way to Scotland Yard. They left the river in a much better place than they'd been in when they'd arrived.

Lestrade would be waiting for them. He'd surely be aggravated by the time it had taken them, but it couldn't be helped. John allowed himself a few minutes of calm before he would have to switch gears and join the fray out on the streets. 

They'd left with three victims on the news, knowing there would be four more soon. 

Sherlock was doing his best not to show his nerves. This was a calculated risk - the fact that Lestrade had called him, rather than showing up at his doorstep with a couple of squad cars, was a good indication that he hadn't received any anonymous tips about a consulting detective being spotted near the murder scenes. That could always have changed in the short time it had taken them to clean the apartment and make their side trip.

The station was understandably chaotic when they finally arrived. The death of a cop was never a minor affair, and multiple deaths in one night had shocked and enraged the rest of the force. The building was packed with officers, some from outlying boroughs that Sherlock had only seen perhaps once or twice before.

Sherlock bypassed the frazzled reception staff entirely; the phones were so busy that they didn't even notice two familiar men squeezing through the crowd towards the offices in the back.

When they found him, Lestrade was in a corner, barking orders to three different teams at once. They scattered just in time for the inspector to spot Sherlock and John moving toward him.

"Took you long enough!" Lestrade's tone was clipped. Obviously he'd been under heavy stress for hours. Holding up a hand, he stopped a sergeant interrupting him and gave his attention to Sherlock. "The Commissioner's about to make a statement to the public and so far we've got _nothing_ to go on. We've got five officers down in their own homes and not one witness. Please, tell me anything you can."

"We'd only just seen the news report that three had been found when you called," Sherlock answered smoothly. "If you don't know of any connection between them, aside from profession, I can't tell you anything more until I'm given time and a chance to see the available evidence. Were all of them found with similar wounds?"

"Yeah, all shot in the head, ‘execution style’. All at home with their families. No one saw anything, the killer got them when they were alone, even just for five minutes. Didn't use a suppressor. Only piece of evidence we've found so far has been open windows. There is one thing though," Lestrade led them to an evidence table where photographs of the scenes and the bodies were scattered over its surface. "All of them are missing their service weapons."

Sherlock examined each photo in turn, frowning slightly. "Do you have a time of death yet on the bodies? We need to know if we're looking for one individual or a coordinated group."

Why cops? Perhaps, cliched as it was, M had a problem with authority figures. Or it was just a way to up the stakes - very little got police officers as upset and personally motivated as the murder of their own.

"I'm guessing it's too early to have a ballistics match yet."

"We're waiting for one now." Lestrade laid out the photographs in order of killing. "Earliest was this morning around 10. Next is 11:18. After that we've got about 12:30. Last two were found in their homes about an hour after the time of death, both about an hour in between. Wife left for a couple minutes, came back and didn't notice her husband wasn’t moving, what with the telly still on, until an hour later. So really, there's only about an hour delay in between each. We figure, with travel distance included, it could be one suspect if he's moving _fast_ , or it could be a pair of them." 

Sherlock shook his head after examining the photos. There was nothing particularly unusual, other than the fact that they were all officers and were all shot in quick succession. "The one where the wife left for a few minutes, where was that? If this was one individual on a tight deadline for his shooting spree, he wouldn't have spared the time staking the house out. There had to be a way to see the victim and ascertain that he was alone."

That might mean trace evidence on a hacked camera or from a vantage point adjacent to the dwelling. Until Sherlock got more information and had a chance to examine the guns, there was little to go off of.

"Little townhouse in South Kensington. If you put them on a map, it would make a line heading north. Started in Chelsea with the first two. Only one was a flat, first floor." Lestrade pulled up a map of the addresses on a mobile tablet. "This sure looks like it was planned. It's too clean—"

He was cut off suddenly by an officer on the other side of the office loudly announcing the latest news. "Sixth shooting found! Knightsbridge…" He relayed an address and a name, and phones began buzzing everywhere. What spare officers were left in the station were either heading for the door or reaching for their mobiles.

"There's no question it was planned. You don't get this sort of coordinated efficiency from disorganized murderers. Even if the killer is one or two individuals, the fact that they went in a line heading north gives us something. Even at the best times of day, travel speed is limited by traffic. Cabbies would be too risky, they might remember their passengers, and there would be blood spatter and the scent of gunpowder after the first murder, which would draw attention on public transport..."

Sherlock's gaze flicked up to Lestrade. "Map them out, quickly. There are only so many efficient street routes to take, and there are CCTV cameras at regular intervals on all the main roads. Unless they're extremely adept at carjacking, we're looking for one to two individuals driving a car. The same one for the entire spree. Map the most time-efficient routes, check the cameras for a match."

It would take time, but it was something. It was more of a lead than they currently had.

Lestrade jerked his head in a nod, grabbing his own phone and relaying Sherlock's orders to focus on private vehicles to the police going over footage. "They're doing it manually now. The software we've been using to find suspicious activity didn't pick anything up."

Lestrade wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. He was beginning to show signs of stress, as were many of the senior officers in the room. Six men were dead now, all fallen comrades.

His phone buzzed again. He was on it for 30 seconds. "Time of death on the last was hours ago, early afternoon. That would put him at roughly an hour after the fifth. Keeps the pattern…. Jesus, am I going to have to call in every officer we've got?" 

"There was no connection between these officers? They never worked on the same case?"

Given what little he could infer about M, there didn't necessarily have to be a connection. Hell, there didn't really have to be a reason, other than that the officer's houses were in a relatively convenient line and he wanted to rouse the hornet's nest.

Two things made Sherlock deeply uncomfortable and glad he'd taken precautions at the flat: the timing of the first murder had started around the time he'd left the Yard that morning... and the killings had started in the south, slowly moving in almost a straight line to the north. With one more body yet to discover, the murders would be a bloody arrow pointed straight at his neighborhood. Given how vocal Donovan had been lately with malevolent rumors and the way the station gossips would have inevitably spread news that their tongueless chainsaw murderer had wanted to see him, Sherlock was going to be painted as a suspect.

"Couple of them worked cases together, but no, not all." Lestrade looked uncomfortable now, thinking over their career as men he'd worked with, not just victims. He sighed and drew his arms together over his chest in thought. "You should remember a couple of them. Brixton worked that case with the cabbie. Wright was on the one with the two ex wives you helped out with a while back. Donald and Ferrell have done drugs busts at your place before. I think even Ferguson was on a case of yours once." Greg pulled his mouth into a smile that didn't look like one. "Guess I won't take it personal when you didn't remember my name for the longest time."

"If I didn't run into them often, no, I wouldn't remember them. I would have deleted it," Sherlock said, very carefully keeping his expression neutral. It was worse than he thought, then; all of them thus far had met and worked with him.

Most of the force knew of him, perhaps even had met him once or twice, but the number of officers who'd worked with him on a case were limited. It wasn't coincidence; M had drawn his victims from those who'd had more personal contact with him. One more red flag waved under the nose of the law.

Sherlock would have admired the skill and ingenuity if he weren’t the one in the crosshairs.

John was getting uncomfortable at this point. He was fidgeting, shifting his weight back and forth from one leg to the other, noticeable only to the eyes of Sherlock. "Is there anything we can do at the scene?" he asked, just to derail the conversation.

"If you think so, you can come with me," Lestrade offered. "I'll warn you, it's a media frenzy right now."

Sherlock's mouth narrowed in distaste. As much as his ego enjoyed praise, he despised the privacy-rending habits of the media and the way they focused on the most inane subjects possible. They preferred to speculate on his love life and fashion sense instead of highlighting the truly important aspects of his work.

"I don't want to talk to the media. Get us through the crowd and out to the scene as quickly as you can. We'll see what we can find." He wanted as little focus as possible on the fact that he was going to assist in this case. There had been far too many historic examples of criminals being involved in helping with the investigations of their own crimes, whether as hired assistants or law enforcement personnel. Sherlock didn't need to add to the suspicious coincidences.

"Right, let's go." Lestrade led the way through chaos.

They took his car from the yard for what should have been a relatively short drive. The streets were heavily congested due to the police barriers around the home of the slain officer. Fortunately Lestrade's car was unmarked and fitted with tinted windows. It helped them avoid the media until they passed through the barrier and had to park on the side of the street.

Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat and hunched slightly as they exited the car, even though he knew very well that it was a futile way to try to shield himself from the media. By now the news reporters all recognized the tall detective and his shorter companion on sight. They ignored the calls for comments from the other side of the barrier and walked briskly towards the front door.

Sherlock didn't recognize the house. Neither could he recall any of the faces in the photographs in the entryway. Whenever he'd worked with this officer, it had been brief and unimportant, deleted afterwards to make room for more useful things.

He, however, was recognized at the door, even without Lestrade two steps behind he and John. They didn't have to wait long to be let in, escaping the wall of red and blue and flashing cameras behind them.

The house was typical for the area, three bedrooms, brownstone exterior with a small terrace, but the interior was kept with a spacious, contemporary style. The victim, Mark Ferguson, wouldn't have been able to afford the place on his own salary.

"Inspector!" Someone called amid the forensics crew combing through the lower floor. Greg pushed through John and Sherlock to meet the lead officer on the scene. Her name was Kelly and she'd worked with Lestrade years longer than Sherlock had. She walked up to him in a hurry, She was smaller than any other officer on the force, and she got a lot of flack for it, but she was also damn good at her job. "You'll want to talk to Mark's sister. She was the one who found him."

"Lead the way, then." Sherlock examined the architecture as they walked, noting alternate entry points. It was unlikely the murderer had waltzed in the front door, as they had just done.

Elizabeth Ferguson was sitting in the study with a younger officer, blanket draped over her shoulders and a warm mug of tea in her trembling hands. A banker, from the look of her - pale and haunted looking beneath her spray tan, smudges of dried blood staining her hands and the hem of her tailored, pinstriped skirt. She'd been close to her brother, as her first reaction to the body had been to fall to the ground beside him and pray that her hands would deny the evidence before her eyes.

Sherlock ignored the look John shot him; he wasn't the best at tact with grieving friends and family. He was concerned with solving the murder, not soothing troubled minds, and he quickly lost patience with people who couldn't formulate accurate responses. "Ms. Ferguson. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

She looked up at him with just her eyes.

John knew then from where the expression of having a long face had come. She would have been pretty in another place and time, but her face was frozen in the downward turn of her shock and grief. He went to the chair beside her to make her more comfortable. They could only afford one presence looming over her, and that was Sherlock's forte.

Lestrade stood to the side to give them space, speaking with the short policewoman who had been overseeing the scene before they arrived.

Elizabeth let out a shaky breath. "I've seen you," she said to Sherlock. "On the news. Mark even mentioned you once."

"Yes, I get called in to help the Yard with particularly difficult cases," Sherlock replied, mentally reminding himself to try to hold to a neutral tack. He needed information quickly if he was to thwart M's attempts to frame him, and rattling the woman to try to shake clues out of her wasn't going to be the most efficient way to go about it.

"I realize that this is all very sudden and overwhelming, but I need you to focus. Tell me what you saw when you returned home today."

She swallowed and nodded. “I came home from the office, only about half an hour ago. I didn't notice anything out of place until I got in. Mark said he had the late shift today, so I thought he would be home for a few hours. I went upstairs and….and I found him in front of the couch, lying on the floor. I went to him, I didn't even notice the blood at first." She glanced down at her hands. "I don't know how I missed it, it was everywhere, but I just, I was surprised.” 

"Was the door locked or unlocked when you came home? Was it unusual for him to be in that room?" They needed to know whether they were dealing with a stealth killer or someone more straightforward, someone who maneuvered victims via threat of force.

"Locked." Elizabeth shook her head. "No, he watched the telly up there all the time. The lights were off, but the set was still on. I heard it when I went up the stairs. I didn't see him until I turned on the light."

Sherlock nodded and made a mental note to ask the forensics team what they'd pegged the Time of Death. The amount of light outside might have made a difference as to how the killer broke in.

"Did your brother have any new acquaintances recently? New friends in the past few weeks?" He wasn't expecting much from the question. It was a shot in the dark that M had been planning this for a while and picking out the perfect victims, but M struck him as an artist, a bit of a perfectionist. Sherlock knew that if he himself were going to plan a crime, he'd have had all the possibilities worked out well before he began the first step.

Her eyes fell back to her hands, but she wasn't focused on the blood any longer. Elizabeth shook her head slowly. "Not that I know of. We both work so much that I barely see him until the weekend. But I never saw anyone new, and he didn't mention anything. I thought the biggest thing he did all week was getting his car detailed."

Sherlock nodded again; if the officer was approached or watched as a potential victim, either it had been planned for some time or had been extremely discreet. "I may need to ask you more questions later." There was nothing else to be gotten from her at present, not unless he found something at the scene that needed clarification.

Elizabeth looked at him, this time with some of the tension easing out of her shoulders. "Thank you. Thank you…for coming out. I know you'll find whoever did this." She sounded like she meant it. Whatever her brother had told her, or whatever she'd heard in the news, had apparently given her faith in Sherlock's skill.

John's eyes widened just a fraction, surprised. He covered it quickly with a "Thank you for obliging us," and a small, sincere smile.

"We'll find the culprit as soon as possible." Sherlock swept out of the room and grabbed a pair of latex gloves from a forensics kit as he passed by. He scanned as he walked, not spotting anything amiss in the hallway. No signs of struggle or patterns on the carpet or wood. He finally peered around a doorway and found the room he was looking for.

Someone had switched the telly off. The gunshot wound on the victim was readily apparent, the force having tipped him off the sofa. Death had been nearly instantaneous, leaving the corpse twisted exactly as it had fallen.

John followed to the door, knowing he shouldn't step in unless Sherlock called for him. He was used to watching the detective as he flitted around a crime scene, but it was always fascinating. Like some great, black bird he was, hopping to and fro over crumbs left for him to find on the ground.

A smattering of blood lay over the floor, smearing where the body lay and where Elizabeth had crouched down. John could almost see her there. Her hands left imprints like paint on a canvass of white carpet beside Mark's head.

Sherlock stooped over as his gaze traced over the lines of the scene, his curiously slanted eyes widened in an effort not to miss any detail.

The detective's actions were a bizarre dance - an extended gesture, arched back suddenly with a few steps to a different angle, then a turn. A tilt of the head, a sweep of fingers, tips then raised to eye level. There was a grace to it that would have been beautiful if the setting wasn't so macabre.

Sherlock walked backwards from the couch to one of the windows, his gaze flickering from the floor beside him to the view of the sofa. He ran his fingers along the wooden frame once he reached it and pushed the pane up. A quick look after leaning through the opening confirmed his suspicions.

"Find something?" John asked, craning his neck and leaning into the room to see what Sherlock was doing with the window. Lestrade appeared at John's side, also stopping at the threshold of the door to allow Sherlock to work. He'd been told off enough times to believe the eccentric man when he said he needed to think without disruptions or that Greg was walking in the wrong place all over a scene.

"One footprint that looks complete, gunpowder residue on the carpet behind the sofa, and the method the killer used to enter the house," Sherlock replied over his shoulder. He gestured to Lestrade. "Get someone over here to take a casting of the print before Anderson comes and mucks it up, and I'll show you the rest."

Lestrade stepped back and gave a quick shout down the hall. Not a moment later they were joined by a forensics technician and Lestrade took that as the cue that they were allowed in. He and John went to Sherlock's side while the technician bent down to get a look and take measurements.

Lestrade eyed the carpet, but couldn't see what Sherlock saw. They'd have to take samples. "What else?"

"The wooden frame here. It appears undamaged at first glance, but these tiny scratches aren't the marks of normal wear and tear. A very fine metal file was slipped into the crack to lever the window up. This is the entry point. Only a professional would have tools like these, but nothing in the house of value was taken - in other words, a hit man."

Sherlock turned, facing into the room and gesturing. "He knew the victim had a habit of watching telly in this room. He had a schedule and would be distracted." Striding back towards the sofa, he paused. "This wasn't a revenge killing, as he would have confronted the victim face to face, either to deliver his personal message or one on behalf of his employer. From the angle of the body, the killer was about my height, stopped here, sighted down a handgun." Sherlock raised his hand to illustrate, his fingers curled to mimic a gun.

"The distraction of the telly wasn't enough. Our victim either heard something behind him or, more likely, saw the movement in the reflection of the screen. He began to turn to look. At that moment, the gun fired, which is how we have the entry wound slightly to the side instead of directly in the back of the skull. The force propelled him forward off the sofa, and death was near instantaneous, so the angle was preserved: we can see him frozen in the motion of turning to see his attacker."

"The carpet was untouched, so the killer didn't think to vacuum evidence from the floor or didn’t have time to. Shooting at this close range, the powder residue will have coated the back of the couch and the floor. Smell test of the carpet confirms this, which means more evidence for the ballistics, possibly DNA and fiber will turn up in the vacuuming for analysis."

Sherlock turned on his heel, walked back to the window, and climbed out of it.

"Sherlock?" John and Lestrade followed quickly after the night swallowed up the detective, but stopped at the window and peered out awkwardly. Their two heads poked around the corner, just managing to fit them both thanks to John's smaller stature. "Be careful," John warned as they looked on, wide-eyed as Sherlock climbed along the edge of the brick wall.

Sherlock paid them as little mind as he did his own bodily safety, clinging to the brickwork and searching for anything that might have been left behind. He always got this way when he had a case, completely driven until he reached the conclusion, and John never failed to look at him like he was either brilliant or a lunatic.

Reaching a bit of slanted roof, Sherlock jumped onto it and found another bit of what he was looking for; a sturdy tree growing near the roof edge, close enough to climb and get access to the top of the house. Another jump and he was in the branches.

Lestrade winced. "He's good at that, isn't he?" John looked on with concern before Lestrade called to Sherlock. "So that's how the shooter got in then? I suppose it's possible, if you can do it." A hit man could have done it, surely, or someone in good shape with a lot of motivation and know-how.

"Uhm, now how are you going to get down?" John felt only a little better with Sherlock in the tree. At least he wasn't clinging by the grip of his fingers.

Sherlock didn't answer for a moment, reaching into the branches; a tiny piece of cloth had snagged and been left behind. He grabbed it, then started to look for handholds. "It's oak, John. Honestly, did they not bother to teach you basic wilderness skills in boot camp, or did they think it not relevant because they were sending you to a more arid climate?"

It was a difficult descent, but not impossible. Someone trained at climbing and finding vantage points would have found it to be child's play, while most people wouldn't have even considered the tree as an access point without a ladder to assist them. "Bring down an evidence bag, I've got something."

John grimaced and left the window. Lestrade watched for only a second more and then followed.

They met on the small lawn when John and Lestrade emerged carrying a small plastic bag. Fortunately the media swarm was on the other side of the house. Lights from the squad cars flashed across the few tall trees around them and bathed the wall in red and blue intermittently. 

John had to get close to see what Sherlock had brought down in the diminished light. "What is it?"

"Bit of cloth. Not heavy duty field gear, but something from conventional clothing. Our hitman was dressing to fit into a crowd and look inconspicuous." Sherlock deposited the dark grey scrap into the bag and watched Lestrade seal it.

"That was all I could see at first glance, but you'll want to get someone up there with a ladder to check again."

"On it." Lestrade left for the house looking relieved that they'd found _something_ to work with after so long.

As soon as he was through the door, John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes alight and uneasiness in his stance. "Your height, is he? I thought the man we saw on video at the other scene was much shorter."

"Yes, which only means he's working with or hired someone else. Or threatened them into it," Sherlock murmured. M's style seemed to be manipulation, and he could easily see him pulling someone's strings to kill for him. "Whatever physical evidence we may find, I doubt it will have ties to M. This is just one more thing - if the police find placed evidence to incriminate me and eyewitnesses or evidence indicate someone of my height, the circumstantial clues will look more solid."

"Right….." John blew out a breath. They had to keep on top of this investigation then. They had to know every piece of evidence Lestrade and his team found and whether it could implicate Sherlock or not. "Then let's not tell them things like the real killer's your height, shall we?" He gave a tight lipped smile, looking uncertain and even smaller than usual being cast in Sherlock's half shadow when they were lit by the far away flashing lights.

"They would have figured that own on their own from the angle of the entry wound and the necessary gun height, John. Not telling Lestrade in this instance would have been highly conspicuous in its absence."

Sherlock tilted his head down and regarded John fondly; the difference in height between them always gave his colleague a touch of vulnerability that brought a slight smile to Sherlock's lips. This time, however, Sherlock's eyes were shadowed.

The fact that Sherlock was worried enough that it showed was a grim sign indeed.

John tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut at that look. "Yeah. Alright…." Sherlock's point was valid, even if John didn't like it. He looked around to make sure they were alone. "We've still got one body left to find." He hoped for both of their sakes that they wouldn't find any more evidence implicating Sherlock there, but he had to admit that it was highly likely with it being the last. If they didn't catch up to the killer, he didn't know how they could explain whatever they were about to find.

Just then Lestrade came bursting through the back door. "We got a call. There's been another one just north of Hyde Park. We're heading out, _now_."

Sherlock touched John's shoulder briefly and turned to face Lestrade. "Let's go."

The pattern was as he'd feared. The last murder had jumped closer still to 221B. Given that this was the last of a set of seven, whatever dangerous evidence left at the scene could also be a message for him from M. 

Sherlock was going to have to be quick and at the top of his game. Without any way of knowing what they were going to find, he'd have to prepare for the possibility that Lestrade might try to have him arrested on site.

They marched back to Lestrade's car quickly to avoid the cameras and news reporters as much as was humanly possible, and drove into the night with apprehension heavy between them.

Lestrade's grip on the wheel was too tight. His eyes shifted too much. He must have known this last officer personally. "Shit, they're following," the DI swore.

Behind them, several of the news vans were scrambling together and pulling onto the street. With the Met investigating a string of murders, they had caught on when DI Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, and two following squad cars left in a rush. Greg pressed the gas, but there was nothing to be done about it. He couldn't lose them on the city streets, not when they needed to arrive as soon as possible and half of the division would be following like a beacon right behind him. 

Sherlock slouched down as low as he could, trying to make it difficult for the press to snap photos of John and him in the back seat. If there was one thing he trusted the media to do, it was to take everything out of context and blow it out of all proportion.

"Who is it, Lestrade?" He had to know. This last murder had struck a personal chord with the one man who had been keeping the Yard from constantly fingering him as a suspect for being too good at his work.

Lestrade glanced in Sherlock's direction before he brought his eyes back to the street. "Tobias Gregson. You'll remember him. Haven't worked with him in years."

In fact, Gregson and Lestrade had never been fond of one another, but they had worked closely just before and briefly after the time Greg had come to know Sherlock. They had fought over everything back then, especially Sherlock and his involvement in their cases.

Sherlock's expression darkened, tension winding his frame even tighter. This wasn't good. As one of the main remaining dissenting voices from a position of power, there was no love lost between he and Sherlock. Only the fact that Sherlock worked with Lestrade's team had kept the conflict from flaring up again - that, and his good track record.

From an outsider's perspective, Sherlock would have had good motivation to get rid of Tobias.

Fortunately, they were among the first officers to arrive at the scene of Gregson's flat. Lestrade pulled over in front of the building while the two remaining squad cars started setting up a block in the road with their vehicles. In a flash the three of them were led in by a junior officer and headed up the stairs toward a shrill, choked voice echoing through the halls. A woman, Gregson's wife…Linda, Greg remembered her name, sat on the edge of her small couch, sobbing. One of the arriving officers was kneeling before her on one knee, trying to console her and ask her questions at the same time.

It wasn't working at all because there, in the middle of the floor, lay the body of Tobias Gregson with the back of his skull blown out.

Sherlock was completely on edge, though he was doing his best to hide the fact. He couldn't look everywhere fast enough. He let Lestrade go to Gregson's wife, ignoring her while he stalked the room searching for something, _anything_ that had been left behind.

Something dark caught his eye as he walked past the mantle. A slip of printed paper was tucked in the space between the clock and a picture frame showing Tobias and Linda. Sherlock palmed it and continued to make his way around the room. He didn't dare check its contents where he could be easily observed.

John stood there for a moment, not knowing how to help Sherlock in his search, nor how to keep eyes away from him. He decided the best course of action was to focus on the body.

Cause of death was obvious, but he still needed to check. "Hey," he caught the attention of the other officers, trying to take their attention off Sherlock. "This is how you found him? Has anything else been touched?"

They shook their heads. "No, just like that. She called us as soon as she got in."

"Good. Then can I have someone bring in a camera here?" John wasn't used to giving orders, and the Yard officers were not used to taking orders from him, but they obliged.

Sherlock took advantage of the distraction to step around the corner, ostensibly to comb the area for more evidence. He unfolded the slip of paper as soon as he was confident he wouldn't be spotted.

The sheet contained a screenshot from the video camera he'd found at the chainsaw murder scene. It was unmistakably the same room. The shot was a little different, however, the lighting entering the room's windows through another angle and illuminating marks on the wall.

Sherlock refolded the paper and crammed it into his pocket. He'd have to take a closer look when he got a moment to indulge. Right now the first priority was to comb the area for any other incriminating clues or messages.

Greg probably wasn't the best person to console Linda, and after several minutes of trying, he conceded this fact and let the sergeant take over. He joined John, who was gathering a small crowd of officers, on the floor. "What can you tell me?"

The doctor took a moment to look up at him. "Fairly straightforward, just like the others. Head shot, died instantly. I don't see any other signs of injury…. But he was standing when it happened, and the shooter must have been right in front of him. So, taken by surprise?"

"Taken by surprise, although not nearly as much as the last victim. He had enough time to turn and look at his assailant. Which doesn't surprise me, given the space to work with here - difficult to sneak in completely undetected when you're dealing with a one bedroom flat instead of a modest house," Sherlock interjected.

There had been nothing out of place in the bedroom and the washroom's window had barely merited the name. "Nothing in the other rooms. He had to have come through the front door. Did Gregson normally lock the door when he was at home?" Sherlock asked, striding to the object in question in order to examine it for himself.

John turned to Linda indicating with only a calm gaze that the question had been for her. Inside, his heart was pounding.

"Yes, always," she responded shakily. John realized then, just by the way she looked at Sherlock, that she too must have realized who he was. Just like Elizabeth. But, where Elizabeth had welcomed his presence, Linda seemed rigid.

Sure enough, evidence of forced entry was there. Subtle, but there. "Lestrade, we need a photo as soon as they're done with the victim. Scratches on the door are consistent with the standard lock picks on the market. The chain wasn't cut, but the killer could have gotten in using something as simple as a rubber band."

It was difficult to ignore the unfriendly and accusatory stare from Gregson's widow.

Lestrade called the photographer over and came to see himself. This wasn't good. The DI could see the signs Sherlock pointed out, though they were barely there. Definitely a professional.

His phone buzzed and Lestrade excused himself to take the call, heading off to the corner of the room.

John glanced to him nervously once, but quickly dropped the expression and focused himself. He left the body to the forensics crew when Lestrade pocketed his phone and stepped back into their space.

"That was the Commissioner. We're going to be holding a press conference in an hour down at the station. Unless you want to be a part of it, I suggest we part ways." Lestrade looked haggard. His forward posture, rumpled tie, and five o'clock shadow echoed the amount of stress he felt, but his eyes were alert.

"No, I'll leave the media gauntlet to you," Sherlock responded smoothly. He stripped off his latex gloves for disposal. "Call me as soon as you get any more information."

Sherlock's gaze shifted to John and he inclined his head, indicating that his colleague should follow. They descended to the ground floor in silence.

John paused at the door, not wanting to go out with the news teams waiting for them, but not wanting to be overheard either. "That was it? Nothing…particularly incriminating up there?" he whispered, eyes dancing cautiously between Sherlock and the stairs.

Sherlock held up one finger, pausing and giving John a significant look. "I have it," he whispered back. "We need to go."

He pushed the door open and was greeted by a staccato of lights from the outside - the paparazzi were snapping pictures of everyone exiting the building. Sherlock turned up his collar and headed for a gap in the crowd. They'd have to run for it and grab a cab on the way.

John followed, head down, caught in the paradox of trying not to look like he was trying not to be not to be photographed. They pushed through at a brisk pace and managed to avoid the questions by a steady mantra of "Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. No comment." One reporter followed them halfway down the block at a near jog before giving up.

Luckily, Hyde Park was a busy place, even at this hour, and they managed to find a cab after turning the street corner. John sighed in relief once they were safely tucked inside.

The cab ride was frighteningly quick. They were home in a matter of minutes. Sherlock paid the cabbie and bolted for the door, climbing the stairs two at a time in his haste to get out of sight.

Sherlock whipped around as soon as he heard John close the door behind them and dug the paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and presented it without comment. He knew John would instantly recognize what it was from.

John's lips parted in shock. He took the paper from Sherlock's hand and looked down at one still frame of the mystery murder taken directly from the video they'd found.

"You were meant to find this? Or were they?" John didn't understand. "Is it another warning? Because if Lestrade had found this…." That wouldn't have been good. If photographic evidence of the chainsaw murder were found in Tobias Gregson's flat, that would have raised all kinds of questions. Not the least of which being what device had taken the photo. They would have been forced to reveal the camera they'd withheld.

"Either one. If they'd found it first, it would have been punishment for not being quick enough. It was lodged between the mantle clock and a frame, about as blunt of a message as you can get: run out of time and the noose will tighten." Sherlock's mouth narrowed and fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes. Normal cases didn't affect him like this; being the prey instead of the predator for once wasn't sitting well with him.

"But John, look at the wall, those shadows on the wall at the first scene, something that wasn't readily apparent at the time."

John looked closer. There was indeed something on the wall. In just the right angle of light, a rectangular pattern of shadows appeared behind the table. It was being cast by the angle of the sun and a few dark smudges on the window. "It looks like…a boat." John's brows drew together. A sailboat, specifically, caught in the sweeping sea. John turned the paper this way and that, trying to figure out if that's what he was really seeing because it almost looked as though there were three numbers written below it as well: 007.

Sherlock frowned at the boat. It looked oddly familiar.

Leaving the paper in John's hands, Sherlock turned and began muttering to himself, ending up perched on the edge of the armchair. Shutting his eyes and raising his hands, he began to search through his mind palace, twitching and gesturing as he shifted incorrect images and pieces of information out of the way.

John moved slowly to take one of the chairs beside Sherlock's worktable. He was careful not to interrupt Sherlock like this, but he couldn't stop himself from watching either. John could almost see the files he was sifting through his mind, their names and images brought up by his hands in shimmering type around his head and then discarded one by one in rapid succession. Just like a computer combing through its hard drive.

John looked down at the paper in his hands. It didn't recall anything for him, but he did have to marvel at the way the drawing must have been laid down on the pane of glass to be cast accurately on the wall at all. 

Sherlock snapped back to reality. "Ernst Wasmuth, 1904 printing of Hermann Muthesius' _Das Englische Haus_. It's a book on English architecture. It was arguably his most famous work, although his most enthusiastic followers were in Germany, Austria, and Hungary. I doubt this is referencing the influences of his work on the continent - every target has been close to home, as it were. So a devotee who came to Britain..."

Sherlock frowned. "Erno Goldfinger was the most obsessed Hungarian architect and designer to idealize Methesius. He moved to London in the early 1930s and built several modernist houses in London, another at Essex, several offices and schools and tower blocks. I fail to see what any of them have to do with two zeroes and a seven. That's not a street number, nor enough information for map coordinates."

John pursed his lips to form a question that never came. He was interrupted by the sound of Sherlock's phone.

It was Lestrade, and he was in a complete fit. "Sherlock? Thank god. We need you down at the station _now_. Five officers have gone missing. I'll explain when you get here, just _get here_."

Sherlock let out a hiss of breath - one more demand on his time, one more distraction eating away at the crumbs of time that'd been left for him. "Right. On our way."

He hung up on Lestrade with an expression that suggested a desire to punch him for interrupting. "We're running out of time. Lestrade wants us back at the Yard again. Five officers have vanished."

John's eyes widened in shock. " _Five_? _Five_ officers have just vanished?" He gaped at Sherlock.

They wasted no time in getting back to the Yard. Lestrade was waiting for them on pins and needles. He was out of his depth at this point, and it was written all over his face. He rushed them in as soon as he saw them and began laying down the facts quickly. 

"We'd split everyone off into teams going over the seven houses, but everyone's been going back and forth like mad. We didn't even notice until Gregson's news hit. About two hours ago, one of the junior officers didn't show up to the lab where he'd been stationed all day. That was the first. Over the next two hours, four other officers have just disappeared. Same thing, just _gone_." Lestrade looked serious. "Donovan's one of them. Last thing she said was she got a call to come down to the second house, one of the Chelsea ones. Thing is, forensics left that house hours ago. There wouldn't have been anyone there. Didn't even think of that when she called, with everything going on…."

"Have you already sent officers to the second house?" It seemed obvious that that was the logical thing to do, but Lestrade was panicking. He wasn't going to be at his most logical. Sherlock would have to be blunt.

If Donovan had gotten a fake call but still responded, this meant the killer had either stolen the phone of someone she trusted... or he'd hacked the system to display a different number, much to the same effect.

"Sent the few who were left at the third. They were the nearest team. That was barely ten minutes ago, and they're not finding anything out of the ordinary, not yet." Lestrade was gathering his things and heading for the door. "I want you to come out there with me. This hasn't hit the news just yet, and I don't want it to. No bodies, all I can assume is that they're still alive."

Sherlock hesitated. It was too straightforward, it wouldn't be like M at all to make it that easy. Then again, he couldn't admit as much to Greg, not without revealing all the evidence he'd held back. Confessing to that would only outline him in neon and make him the prime suspect – after all, he and John had also been away at Baker St. while all this was happening.

"Let's go, then." Damn it all to hell, the second murder scene was not the solution. The printout Sherlock had found at the seventh murder was the key, somehow. It had to be at one of Erno Goldfinger's buildings, he just had to figure out which one.

They made the drive as fast as possible. Lestrade turned the lights on and ducked and wound through the night traffic until they came to a screeching halt in front of a large, upscale home. It reflected the miniature version Sherlock and John had seen in the photographs on Lestrade's desk. They rushed inside, meeting Kelly on the way.

"There's no sign of her," she said. "No one else either. The door was locked and the scene hasn't been disturbed since the team here left for the lab."

"Was anyone else called to this house, does anybody know?" Lestrade asked.

Kelly shook her head. "When Talbot disappeared, he said he was needed at the house in Chelsea. He could have been referring to the first house, not this one."

Lestrade nodded. "Ok. I'm taking two of your men there. Kelly, I want you to help Sherlock with anything he needs here, then we'll meet up and compare notes."

Sherlock left Greg and Kelly to work out the particulars of their plan, striding off into house. It was clean, too clean, and there was _nothing_. It was thrilling to have a challenger at his level, but at the same time, frustrating. It felt like his opponent was cheating, leaving everything too clean.

He didn't just want to win the game and catch the man now. No, he wanted to _meet_ him. In private, somewhere they could discuss things as equals without worrying about who was listening and watching and whether everything was being recorded.

A discussion with this man would be fascinating in a way that interviewing prison inmates would never be. For one, M was far more clever than the usual sods Sherlock spoke to, ones who'd made stupid mistakes to land themselves in prison. If Sherlock didn't catch him, this man would never be caught.

John came in a minute later. "Lestrade's gone to the first Chelsea house. I told Kelly to give us a minute. She's heard how you work." John was anxious, that much was clear. He watched Sherlock pace around with keen eyes and a small frown. The tall man was getting lost in himself again. Not only was their freedom as innocent men on the line now, but the lives of Donovan and four others from the Met. "How long do you think we have to find them?"

"Two hours at most, before he gets impatient. That's if they aren't already dead. There won't be anything to find here, the murder site calls are a distraction. The architect is the real key. One of the buildings Goldfinger made will be where he is, or the kidnapped officers. Or perhaps both. He doesn't want the police there, just me, which is why he's giving them shadows to chase."

That made John uneasy.

"So the picture is the real clue." John wound an arm around himself and held his mouth with the other. "How do we know which house? If this architect built several, that doesn't give us a lot of time." He looked to Sherlock pleadingly over the curl of his hand, hoping for everything that the detective could link it all together. 

Dim light cast through the windows behind Sherlock and made him look ghostly, otherworldly, while he walked swiftly back and forth in his agitated state.

"I don't understand what the number string has to do with the architect," Sherlock snapped, his pacing reaching a frenetic tempo. "It doesn't correspond to a date or time. It has no connection to the physical coordinates of any of his buildings. It can't reference the seventh page of _Das Englische Haus_ , otherwise why the extra digits?"

His expression soured. "I'm missing _something_. Something that eliminates his other works and leaves only one left." Sherlock dug his phone out of his pocket, bringing up the web browser.

John frowned. "Well…the only thing I can think of for 007 is James Bond." He paused. Something slick coiled in his stomach. Double O Seven. The architect, Erno…. "Goldfinger." John went still. "James Bond in Goldfinger." That had to be the connection. "But what does that have to do with a place?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John. "...James Bond?" It was obvious from the tone of his voice that he hadn't the slightest clue who John was talking about. He typed it into his phone anyways, hoping that John's guess would bring up something relevant.

"...2 Willow Road, Hampstead. Ian Fleming lived there and... named a movie villain of his after Erno Goldfinger." He gave John an odd look that clearly said he didn't understand why John retained such normally-worthless trivia in his head. "I suppose I should be glad one of us is designated storage for random factoids."

John opened his mouth in knee-jerk offense, but shut it when the rest of him caught up. They didn't have time to argue. "You should be. Let's go."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is where that warning about minor character death comes into play. We would like to say ahead of time that we are very, very sorry, and to please see the end of this chapter for further notes.

They took off through the house and just made it back onto the street when Kelly came rushing out behind them. "John!" she shouted, "The other house, _Greg's been shot_ , we've got to get there now. They ran into the gunman; it's serious."

John whirled around, blanching. He was the nearest, the only, doctor they had on hand. For a dizzying moment, he twisted back to Sherlock. Donovan and the others didn't have much time, and Sherlock needed to get to them. "Okay, okay. I'm coming. But, Sherlock, take someone with you."

"Go take care of Greg," Sherlock responded, waving John off and heading for the door. He hoped John would read the answer as agreement.

This was it. This was what M had been building towards: a showdown between the two of them. There was no question whether Sherlock was going to accept. Even unarmed, the hooks had sunk in too deep for him to refuse. 2 Willow Road might as well have been a siren song.

Sherlock dashed off down the street and hailed a cab, half-wondering if this was going to be the last ride he ever took.

Kelly pulled John into her car and they took off. He could only hope for Sherlock's safety, but Lestrade needed him now. It felt like being back in Afghanistan, heading a group of squad cars blazing through traffic, sirens deafening, knowing that in a few short minutes he would be called on to save a life. All his focus turned to that one goal.

* * *

The Willow Road building was unusual, Sherlock would give it that. Squat and rectangular behind a low brick wall, it wasn't a very intimidating structure. The bright blue door in the center had a single brass 2 affixed to it and glass window cubbies on either side.

The street was empty for a place that supposedly was a registered historical building of some importance, but that likely had much to do with the late hour.

Sherlock tried the handle of the main door. It opened without resistance and he stepped through.

Inside it was just as open, the classic modernist touch. Great windows spanned the second floor, quite visible from the outside, but without any light the house's interior had been indiscernible from the street. A series of circular staircase spun from the ground floor to the second, and also led down to the basement. Looking at it from the street it would seem to be one rectangular block, based in concrete with only a narrow wall separating it from the sidewalk. The back of the house, however, opened out to the sprawling landscape of Hamstead Heath from the partial basement floor.

It was utterly silent, nothing to suggest anyone unwelcome might have been there.

Sherlock moved carefully through the house, listening intently for any movement. The house might as well have been deserted, but this _had_ to be the correct location.

Walking up the spiral stairs, Sherlock checked the upper rooms first. Each was filled with modernist furniture and artwork, but completely unoccupied. The house was obviously kept as a sort of gallery or museum instead of a proper residence.

When Sherlock descended the staircase to the basement, it was the only possibility left.

It was darker than the rest of the house without the light of the street coming in, even though the opposite side did open to the back garden.

Donovan's figure lying prone on the floor of the Garden Room was not readily apparent until Sherlock was halfway through it.

Bound by her hands and feet, she was lying in a fetal position on the hard floor with her wrists behind her back. She’d been tucked in the corner between the doors leading to the rolling heath and an armchair, heavily unconscious.

Scattered beside at her feet were paper files, positioned neatly so that they might be presented with her body, like a halo around her.

Sherlock stepped around her, searching until he found the room's light switch. He turned back once better illumination had been achieved.

There didn't seem to be any tripwires or traps to the set up at first glance, and Donovan appeared to be unharmed other than her captive status. As Sherlock drew closer, he spotted the catch.

Donovan was surrounded by files on _him_. Photos, drafts of reports, personal typed notes, all spun to be as incriminating as possible. While M had been staging events and evidence in a game to frame him, Donovan had secretly been doing something similar behind his back. From the looks of things, she'd been building towards it for a long time.

He bent low and looked them over. There were files stretching back to the first time he'd come upon Lestrade's division at the Met. Much of it was speculation and references to known infringement of the law, but the evidence turned more solid, and far more serious the further it progressed. Case by case, more worryingly, she had managed to personally link him in each setup.

Sherlock's phone chimed in an explosion of sound in contrast to the room’s previous silence. The text message came from an Unknown caller.

_Hello, sexy._

_Why don't you wake her up?_

_Who is this? Give me a name._ Sherlock typed back, keeping his phone in hand as he knelt beside Donovan's still form. Staring at her intently for a few moments, he reached over and shook her awake.

Just one more enemy on his list. She'd shown herself to be much more of a threat than he'd realized.

Donovan came to with a start. Her breath hitched and her whole body twitched when she saw him looming over her. "Oh god," Her eyes were wide with fear. " _Please…._ " Her gaze fell to the files strewn about the floor around her and the flush of blood faded from her face.

Sherlock's phone gave another chime.

_I've given you a present. Take it and you can have my name._

Sherlock glanced at the text, then the room around them. Doubtless there was another camera hidden here, watching the scene play out. _What do you propose?_

"Care to explain all of this?" he asked Donovan coldly, gesturing to the documents fanned out around her. "I was expecting a confrontation with a cop killer and kidnapper, not a backstabbing inspector who'd sink to framing someone based on personal dislike."

Her eyes went impossibly wide for a moment. "You're still playing along, are you?" She spit the words out as though she were angry, but her fear stole away all the force behind them. Her breaths came too shallow, too quick. Her voice trembled in her throat and she bit her mouth closed, hearing the way it sounded and hating it. Instead, her eyes flashed up at him.

Another chime. _Oh, how precious. She's trying to be brave for you, all just for you._

_Within the blue folder to your left you will find three matches. These matches dearest Sally collected from the Charlotte Street fire three months ago. A case of arson, she believes it to be, and one orchestrated by you. Within the rooms to your left and to your right you will find enough accelerant to blow this place sky high if you so desire._

Another glance at the phone and Sherlock reached for the blue folder. Sure enough, there were the matches. He palmed them and glanced at the clock on his phone.

He had a decision to make and very little time in which to make it.

"Was it from some inferiority complex, the fact that I solved your cases better and quicker than you ever could? Were you denied a promotion because of me? Were you unable to get past your first impression? Or were you just that spiteful that you couldn't handle the existence of someone who _wasn't_ neurotypical?"

Sally Donovan's eyes welled with unshed tears of fright or of frustration. " _Stop playing!_ " she shouted at him, her face twisting into something that looked a lot like grief. "I know what you did, what you've been doing for _years_. I have PROOF all around you." Her whole body was shaking, but she didn't lower her voice. She twisted to get away from him, scrabbling with her hands behind her on the floor to sit up. She knew she was incriminating herself against him, but it poured out of her. The tears were flowing down her face now. "You bastard. It just wasn't enough, was it? All the little crimes you "solved" just couldn't get you off anymore? So you _escalate_. It gets more violent. The _fire_ , the _chainsa-_ " she gasped, fear wracking her body on that word, but she stumbled through. "So you go after cops, anyone you don't like. You start killing US."

Chime. _Dear me, you seem to have set her off, haven't you? Sadly, I just don't think she'll understand if you explain that, right now, the see-saw is up for her life or those of her four little comrades. They are waiting so patiently._

Donovan backed herself up to the corner. She was barely holding on, battling against her consuming terror of him.

He was honestly more insulted by the implications than by her theory that he'd executed a man with a chainsaw out of boredom. "You really think I'd be _that stupid_ , to take a hit list of officers I didn't like and execute them? When the only connection between them is my dislike and their knowledge of my past? You take me for that much of a fool that I'd bet my life on a petty vendetta?"

Sally laughed bitterly. Her voice made the correct sound, but her mouth was a grimace. "That's why it's called escalating, isn't it? You're _so clever_ , aren't you? And you've gotten away with _so much_. You think you can just cover it all up, until the need, _your sick, sick need_ , gets to be so big that you can't anymore. And I found you. _I found everything._ You're smart, but you're no different than any other killer we've profiled. They all do it, start escalating and then they can't stop. You can't _help it_ that deep down inside you, no matter how smart you think you are, you're just a _psychopath_."

Sherlock's phone chimed merrily. _She almost had you, you know. Kept a list of your old drug buddies and everything; you can check the files. Thought they might be helpful in setting you up. Get you addicted again, and then strike… Because that's the thing, Sherlock. She could never have outdone you at full mental capacity. And she knew it._

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously as he read the text. Stalking back over to the pile, he sorted through it until he found the proof.

It was all there - nearly every dealer he'd ever bought from, with a number of other former junkie contacts besides. Details of every substance he'd tried, dosage and frequency. Signed affidavits.

Something went cold and dead at Sherlock's core. It must have filtered into his eyes, because when he turned to look at Donovan she stiffened in fear.

Sherlock pushed all the documents into a pile and walked calmly to the other room. He dug a pair of latex gloves out of his coat pocket and grabbed a can of accelerant. They were there on a countertop, just waiting for him.

Donovan's shouts echoed through the basement. " _Where are you going?_ " It was clear she had no idea what was in the adjacent rooms, but she was frightened of him all the same. She thought she knew what he'd done to countless other victims in the cases they examined. She knew exactly what he could do to her now and her fear rang out through the halls.

Sherlock returned and dumped a good measure of the liquid onto the pile of evidence, calculating strategic points to place the rest based upon his observations of the building. There would be traces of accelerant left at the scene for a certain period until they evaporated, and a building fire would never burn hot enough to destroy a body past the point of identification... but there would be an end to it. An easy solution to a bloodhound and her stashed weaponry.

His life was not hers to destroy.

With one can empty, Sherlock walked back to get another.

When Donovan saw what he was doing, she began to cry harder. She twisted and turned against the wall, fighting the bonds at her wrists and ankles and screaming for help. It did little good. 2 Willow Road was a big house, framed in concrete.

Eventually she dissolved into pleas. She wailed his name until even her fright-stricken mind realized it wasn't working. She had wholeheartedly believed he was beyond remorse, she had, but the pleas fell from her lips as fast as her tears. "Greg trusted you. _They all trusted you._ "

" _And I trusted you, and look where that got me!_ " Sherlock snapped, radiating fury as he stared her down. As much as he'd loathed her, he never would have crossed the line... not until she had.

"Despite your convictions, I wasn't your enemy. But this, _this_ ," he hissed, pointed to the accelerant-soaked files. "Conspiring to drug me, then frame me to prove your pet theory and feel a little personal validation? No. I will not permit you to try to take me down, or anyone else through me."

With the second can empty, Sherlock tossed it away into a corner; the cache in the other room would take care of the rest. "I have curiosity, Sally, but not a desire to kill. Not until something important to me is threatened. I suppose I should congratulate you. You managed to teach me something new. About myself, no less."

Ignoring the pleas issuing from the corner, Sherlock struck one of the matches and tossed it on the evidence pile. He turned away without looking at the flame that shot up, striking the other two matches and igniting two other patches of accelerant on his way back to the stairs.

He ran as soon as he reached the first step. Smoke would begin pouring out of the building soon and attracting attention. He needed to disappear before that happened.

As soon as the building was ablaze, Sherlock's phone chimed again.

_That was lovely, Sherlock. Truly it was. A display of fireworks to commemorate our official introduction._

A great boom shook the house, followed by several smaller ones. The cans of accelerant were exploding. Within no time the whole thing was engulfed in flame. The heat coming off it was immense. Like a giant pyre at Sherlock's back, it illuminated the whole street.

Sherlock didn't have time to reply - he had to get out of there, _now_.

The right way to move was already coming back to him like the threads of an old nightmare, reweaving themselves into the edges of his life - a pace fast enough to get where he was going, but not so fast as to draw attention, twisting and winding through the back streets and alleys of London. Avoid one camera here, another there.

Sherlock stripped off the latex gloves and dropped them down the sewer grate as he passed. He supposed a normal person would be dwelling on the agonizing death he'd just committed Sergeant Donovan to, but all Sherlock could think of was how to craft an explanation for his disappearance.

He flicked open his mobile. _John, trouble. Too late. -SH_

He received one less than ten seconds later. _Are you OK?? We're on our way. Lestrade was a decoy, he's fine. -JW_

John and Kelly and the rest of their officers had arrived at the other house in Chelsea fully prepared to encounter the gunman and a battle zone. What they had found instead was a surprised and then furious Lestrade, perfectly unharmed. That was when John realized what had happened. He'd been lured away from Sherlock intentionally, the same way Donovan and the others had been lured away from the group.

_Have others been located? House was a trap. Not hurt. Where are you going? -SH_

Sherlock leaned against the wall for a moment and just _breathed_. Changing text recipients, he shot back a reply to his... enemy? Rival? He didn't quite know what to categorize M as anymore.

_You still haven't given me a name, and I still don't know what you want. -SH_

He received John's reply first. _2 Willow Road, five minutes away. No word on the missing officers. Did you find them?_

M's came only a moment later. _Tsk tsk. You're two-time texting me this early in our relationship? I'm hurt._

_But you did give me quite a show. Dear Sally's fellow boys in blue can be found, alive and well, in a shipping container beneath the Battersea Bridge._

_Just because you've earned it, and I did so love watching you work, the name's Moriarty_

_We'll talk later, Moriarty. -SH_

Cursing under his breath, Sherlock began to walk back towards Willow Road. _John, what have you told them? Map on wall showed Battersea Bridge, trigger set building on fire after I walked in. Don't know if building was empty. -SH_

He needed to know if Lestrade was expecting him there or not. If the police were merely responding to a fire alert, it would look more suspicious for Sherlock to suddenly appear.

_I had to tell them that's where you went. Thought you were in trouble after I found out about the diversion. Glad you're alright. -JW_

The distant cry of sirens could be heard heading up the street from the south. Between the buildings, they were just visible in the distance, heading Sherlock's way. Among them were assuredly John and Lestrade.

Closing the distance between himself and the building again, Sherlock stopped once he could feel the heat radiating off the house. The fire had spread to the upper floors at this point, flames lapping hungrily through the window cracks and leaving blackened lines in their wake. Donovan was certainly dead by now.

Sherlock waited until the squad car containing Greg and John pulled up.

They both came running up to him, matched for pace, both speaking at the same time. "Jesus, what happened?" "Are you alright?" "Thought you coming up here alone was a trap." "Was there anyone else inside?"

Behind them, Kelly was radioing the fire department. The other officers blocked off the road.

"It was a trap. You got lured away just like the rest of them, John," Sherlock responded. "The fire triggered almost as soon as I entered. I caught a glimpse of a map among some other papers, it had Battersea Bridge marked on it. It may be where the kidnapped officers are being held. I didn't have time to see much, the fire caught too quickly."

Lestrade stepped aside, getting on his phone to call out a sweep of Battersea Bridge.

"You sure you're okay?" John asked, looking Sherlock over. "God, I can't believe you're okay. We saw the fire nearly five streets away. I mean, I got your texts, but…." John ran a hand through his hair. It stayed ruffled. "Why would he lead us to this place and then torch it?"

"You're asking for logical reasoning from a man who executed a man by chainsaw for an afternoon's bit of entertainment," Sherlock pointed out, examining the way strands of John's hair defied gravity in an endearing sort of way. "I think I surprised him. We may get a breathing period, but he's still out there. I can't imagine it will be long before he decides he wants to play again."

There was so much Sherlock wanted to say, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. John couldn't know, and not-knowing would keep him safe.

John closed his mouth, surprised. He didn't think he'd ever heard Sherlock say that before, that a motive for setting up a series of events such as this could be illogical. But, he could imagine that anyone who did stage crimes like this, for whatever reason, would indeed be surprised by Sherlock's speed and aptitude in solving his riddles. "Alright. Well, let's hope not."

Lestrade rejoined them a minute later. "We're searching the bridge. We'll see what we can find. Let's let the fire department deal with this."

"Did you manage to get a trace on the faked phone calls?" Sherlock asked as they piled back into a squad car yet again. He'd be glad when today's endless shuttling was finally at an end. He didn't mind the travel when he felt he was getting somewhere, but so much of the journeying take had just felt like running in circles. It was a waste of time and energy.

Sherlock wanted to get back to the flat. He had a great deal of thinking to do.

"Nope. Not a thing. Cell phone company's clueless, and our tech team is saying the signal was bouncing through so many towers they're running in circles. They _thought_ it was coming from the operator lines." Lestrade gripped the wheel tighter in frustration. "Did manage to determine one thing though. Ballistics got back to us. You know how their firearms were missing? Apparently our killer has been using one man's gun to take down the next."

"He shot each officer with the previous victim's gun?" Sherlock did his level best to sound surprised or, at the very least, moderately amused. "That's a lackluster attempt at irony."

Sherlock ignored the look Greg shot him in the rearview mirror. Lestrade was well used to the fact that his remarks often hit people the wrong way. Despite the stress the DI was going through, he'd forgive the insensitive detective.

Sherlock’s thoughts drifted for a moment to a voice sobbing his name and the smell of chemicals and sulfur. He shook his head to clear it away, gazing out the window instead.

He got one or two fleeting glances from John in the seat next to him. For most of the ride, the doctor sat tense and alert, not quite convinced it was all over.

By the time they pulled up to the river across an array of house boats Lestrade was back on the phone. "They found the four officers, but Donovan's missing." Jogging down the shore brought them to a single shipping container. Though resting in an affluent neighborhood, it looked like it had been there for some time. Gathered around it were an ambulance and medical team seeing to the recently kidnapped Met officers. They’d been trapped inside.

Sherlock was on high alert again, wandering the perimeter of the container. Just because he'd played in Moriarty's favor this time didn't mean the site was clean of evidence - against either of them.

Ignoring John's worried looks, Sherlock climbed into the container itself. It was filthy, as most shipping compartments tended to get over time, but some of the dark smudges looked too orderly to be random marks. "Lestrade, get me a torch!" he called out.

"What is he doing in there…?" Lestrade asked, and John gave a quick shrug as if to say he didn't know why Sherlock liked climbing precariously into things so much either. Lestrade tossed one to the detective anyway.

Sure enough, the light revealed **XQHJMI** written in thick, dark lettering across the top of the container.

"What is it?" John called.

"Another piece of the code!" It made as little sense as the first piece, by itself. The string was too short to decode; they'd have to acquire more pieces before they could have a chance at cracking it.

Sherlock jumped back down to the mud beside John. "It's the same handwriting as the marks in my book. He won't stop at two, he's trying to send a message. We'll have another case before long."

He handed Greg his torch back. "How are the other officers? Did they see anything?"

" _Apparently_ they last thing they remember is being shot with some kind of tranquilizer. Woke up here. Didn't see a single face. Hell, they didn't see anything more than a close encounter with the sidewalk." Lestrade was severely agitated. " _And no one's seen Donovan._ "

John bit his lip. This all seemed like a dead end. A very sudden one. Even if they were being framed before, they at least had a trail to follow. Sherlock seemed to think it was over, but they were still missing one officer.

Sherlock frowned and folded his arms, considering. "There were no other marks on the map I saw. If she's not here, she's either being held somewhere else as a hostage, or as a victim."

A ghost of a cry echoed in the back of Sherlock's mind again, the flicker of a memory. Sherlock's expression never wavered. His mouth wanted to curl up in a smile, a snarl, fits of laughter and sobs, but he had too much experience at keeping his emotions concealed to let it escape. Not right now.

At least Mycroft's lessons had been good for something.

"And that was the only map?" John asked even though Sherlock looked sure. What if there had been another, or what if M didn't have time to put her on the map…except he'd put the others on it. He couldn't think, not like Sherlock did.

Lestrade shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We'll keep searching here. I'm not sleeping until we find her, but at this point, we're making shots in the dark."

"It was the only one I saw. It's possible other locations could have been listed in the papers beside it, but I didn't exactly have time to search."

The firefighters would certainly have the blaze contained and put out by now, but there was no guarantee they'd find the body right away. If part of the structure had collapsed, it might be several days before the remains were found.

Lestrade sighed. "We'll see what we can find when they get the fire out, but that place looked torched." He clearly didn't have much hope for concrete evidence. "Look, you do whatever you need to, you always manage to, but I've got to stay here until we get somewhere."

Greg was beginning to look haunted, and John realized it was because he normally leaned so heavily upon Sherlock for direction, but this time Sherlock's lead had gone up in flames.

Sherlock had realized the same thing, staring at Lestrade like he'd just noticed the other man happened to be human, with all the fallibilities and frailties that applied. Understanding social protocol wasn't his strong suit, and formulas for comfort definitely fell within those boundaries. "Something will turn up. Serial killers always make mistakes sooner or later."

He stepped back, turning expectantly to John. John always had a better sense for what to do in these sorts of situations.

John's eyes followed Sherlock, but he took his cue and turned to Lestrade. "We'll keep working on it. Try not to worry." He pursed his lips, trying for an expression of assurance. "We did find _them_ ," he added, indicating the other officers.

"Yeah…." Lestrade's phone rang. "Yeah, alright." He turned from them and took the call, marching off along the shore toward the ambulance.

John watched him go with doubt coiling in his gut.

Sherlock stood by the riverside like a statue. Lestrade would be upset when they found the body, but he'd recover. More pressing was the matter of the one witness. Sherlock wasn't quite sure what he'd do with Moriarty once he finally tracked him down. He couldn't be permitted to speak of what he'd seen, and he couldn't be allowed to hunt for victims in Sherlock's territory.

At the same time, the man had done him a service, alerting him to a hidden danger. Sherlock would have to wait and see how this played out before he made any decisions.

"We've done all we can for tonight. We won't have anything to follow until he makes a move again," Sherlock said, tucking his hands into his pockets and striding back towards the road. He knew John would follow. It was obvious his friend was worrying over Sally, but, in John’s mind, if Sherlock said there was nothing they could do with what they had, then there was nothing they could do for the time being.

They walked quietly back up to the street. It was past midnight by now. Besides the small army of squad cars behind them, the streets were comparatively quiet. At least they ended up in a posh neighborhood and would have little trouble finding a ride home.

"I don't understand…what was the _point_ of all this?" John confessed. "I know, I know, he's irrational…but, was he trying to kill you by taking you out alone to Willow Road, or was he trying to frame you the whole time just to see us dance?"

"Neither, I think." Sherlock was starting to see bits of the pattern.

"The first case, the personal nature of everything, was his attempt to hook my attention while declaring that he was in a position of superior power and control. This second has been both a threat and a test - play along with his game and show a minimum amount of skill, or become a victim of it. I believe I was isolated because he wanted to meet me without a lot of messy interference. Plans changed, obviously," Sherlock added. "But I think I must have passed his test of skill."

John's eyes widened. "He was going to _meet you_ tonight? To what end? If not to kill you."

Already a cab had spotted them walking along the sidewalk and drove up slowly, hoping for customers. John stretched out his hand and waved, confirming they were looking for a ride even though it interrupted his question.

"I'm not certain yet," Sherlock admitted. "Judging from his behavior, he regards me as both a rival and a potential... well, I'm not sure _friend_ is the correct word for it. Something of that nature, although the invasion of personal space and belongings suggests something more intimate than that."

Sherlock got into the cab and sat for a moment before he noticed John hadn't joined him. He leaned over and grabbed the front of his flatmate's jumper, tugging him out of his shocked stillness and into the cab.

John fell in with an "oomph", and tried to right himself as they pulled away from the curb. He stared in disbelief at Sherlock. "That's… well that's…" John floundered for the words to express how he felt about that. Color rose to his cheeks as he recalled each individual way M had contacted Sherlock. As morbid as they were, he had to admit there was a certain…yes, "intimacy" to it. The poem especially sprang to mind like a bright red, flashing warning sign.

"He's not the trophy type, at least not in a Gein sort of way. He's too fascinated with possibility at this point to attempt to kill me." Sherlock shrugged, observing his flatmate's changing displays of expression and colour in reaction to the conversation. John was bothered by the implications, for some reason.

"I…guess that's a good point?" The hopeful upturn at the end of John's voice didn't sound certain on that at all. He swallowed, his jaw clenching and suddenly he looked away from Sherlock, out the window. He was definitely uncomfortable and trying to ignore it. Instead, he focused on the city lights passing by. His lips twisted until finally, he spoke again. "You're not…I don't know, concerned about this?"

"I'm not concerned about him trying to kill me yet, no. Did you hear a word I said, or were you just agreeing in general?" Honestly, John was mind bogglingly thick at times. "This is useful. Fascination can be used to draw him out. If he begins to change his mind regarding a desire to kill me, there will be signs of his shift in attitude. We'll deal with the problem if it comes to it."

"No no no…" John shook his head, trying not to sound like an idiot. He didn't just mean M's threat, but his…advances as well. It made John's skin crawl that some criminally insane man out there, who happened to stay one step ahead of them, was making overtures to Sherlock. "How can you not be uncomfortable with his…his… _obsession_ with you?" John spluttered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John did seem concerned for his well-being, but he was also displaying signs typically associated with jealousy. "I don't care for the invasion of personal space and him stealing my belongings, but I'm not bothered by his fixation. I've seen it before, in men and women. Nothing ever came of it." He tilted his head in thought. "...granted, none of them were serial murderers."

John buried his head in his hands, giving up. This was just too much for one day. He couldn't process this. Especially not on top of everything else that had happened. Let Sherlock be _fascinated_ , or whatever he was. John didn't care. Or well, he would _try_ not to care. If he managed just that much, it would be fine.

Once John found a steady enough mental place, he resurfaced with a sigh and rode along quietly the rest of the way.

Sherlock watched his friend withdraw into himself and sighed. There was nothing for it but to give John his space. He'd come out of it when he was ready.

Sherlock understood moments like that well enough. John respected the times when he needed uninterrupted hours to think, and it was simple enough to return the favor.

He paid for what he hoped was the last cab ride of the day and unlocked the door to their flat.

John followed him in and they trod heavily up the stairs without much regard for Mrs. Hudson below. It had been a rough day, to say the least, and it was hard to make an effort. John went about putting on a pot of tea right away. He needed something warm in his hands and the thought of a steaming cup was like a beacon drawing him in. He hadn't realized how exhausted he was until he stood at the counter, watching the water boil…and ignoring Sherlock.

The detective seemed at a bit of a loss for what to do with himself. Unlike Lestrade and John, he had nothing to be anxious for until Moriarty initiated the next phase of the game, whatever that would be. Donovan's location was no mystery to him and he had no worries about the safety of the flat at the moment.

There was nothing else to be done but let the exhaustion of the day finally sink into his bones and touch him. Even with the complaints of his stomach, food didn't hold much appeal. Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf and trudged off to the washroom to get ready for bed.

John's gaze followed him when his back was turned, but he was careful to look away before Sherlock could see him. He took his cup of tea and left the pot cooling on the burner. The contact of it, hot in his hands as he ascended the stairs sent tendrils of warmth through his icy blood. He kicked his shoes off at the foot of his bed and sat on the edge, just holding the cup in his hands. His mind wouldn't stop churning through the day – the things Sherlock had been hiding in their own flat, their near framing at the hands of a madman, and Sally, the last missing officer. John couldn’t help but feel like they shouldn’t be resting, not while she was still out there, and it warred inside him. He took a sip of his tea, letting heat pour down his throat. He drank the rest slowly, only lying down when he'd finished. He didn't bother to undress, just pulled the blankets up to his chin and waited for fatigue to take him.

Sherlock washed up and retreated to his room soon afterwards, stripping down to his skin and sprawling on top of the duvet. He stared fixedly at the ceiling as he ran through the day's events and compiled a list of problems he'd have to keep an eye on.

The memories from earlier that night held no horror, nothing but a vague fascination with the smells and sounds and a very small sense of relief. It had doubtlessly been a terrible and painful way to die, and perhaps Sally hadn't deserved such a fate... but then, people rarely did. And now there was one fewer set of judging eyes, danger temporarily thwarted.

Sherlock ran his fingers over the edges of his mobile and wondered when Moriarty would feel prompted to text again. Setting it on the bedside table, he slipped under the covers and let himself drop into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that neither author supports nor condones violence of any sort against women, people of color, or both. We can fully understand if you have reason to take issue with this chapter and will not attempt to defend ourselves against those reasons. In writing this chapter, we realized that Sally would be the only one in canon who had enough balls to investigate Sherlock to this degree, and the conclusions she came to while investigating were sound (as will be further shown later). Her reasons for building a case against him and, yes, even planning to take him out via his narcotics addiction, were also sound. This was not a case of personal vendetta for her. She believed him to be a serial killer, an incredibly resourceful one, and felt she needed to do anything she could to _save everyone she worked with_. Now, we could have raised the bar for ourselves and made another character to take on this role. We decided not to because we wanted it to ring close to home, but because we didn’t, we will accept whatever grievances you may have. This, at times, is a very unhappy story.


	9. Chapter 9

John woke the next morning to the sound of an alarm he'd forgotten to turn off. He slammed his hand over it and buried his face in his pillow, but once he was up, he was up to stay. He pulled himself groggily out of bed, his thoughts allowed less than a minute of respite before they were swarmed with dead Met officers and burning buildings and Sherlock glowing alight in the orange hue of the flames. He trudged down the stairs and headed straight for the shower.

He didn't linger in there, staying only long enough to wash away the grease and sweat from the day prior. It didn't do much to wake him up either. The heat of the spray over his shoulders nearly teased him back to sleep where he stood. The rest of his routine was finished on autopilot until he found himself sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of black coffee in one hand and his other on the trackpad of his laptop.

Sherlock's dreams, on the other hand, had been more bizarre than usual. He'd been living alone again, tucked into one of the armchairs with a book when a knock had come at the door, much as it had when the police had first been convinced to work with him. He'd shouted an invitation to enter, but it hadn't been Lestrade.

A blackened figure had sat down opposite him, waiting politely as he rose and prepared tea and biscuits for the both of them - hospitality out of force of habit as Mycroft's voice rang in his ears, instructing him on proper etiquette. The chair had been promptly soiled upon the first sip as the liquid bled right through. A mouth opened and Sherlock’s guest emitted a hiss of apology.

He couldn't recall what they had talked about. He woke with the taste of ashes on his tongue.

Sherlock levered himself upright and, after a moment's deliberation, decided this was going to be a low-effort morning. He pulled one of the sheets off the bed and wrapped himself in it.

Caffeine first. Then some of whatever was still edible and happened to be within easy reach. And a hot shower. Hopefully the day would have the decency to postpone all emergencies and new cases until he got himself sorted.

Ignoring the cold against his bare feet, Sherlock tromped out to the kitchen to accomplish his immediate goals.

John had finished going through what news he could stand to think about concerning yesterday's crisis and was just beginning the list of emails when Sherlock walked in. John glanced up, did a double take, and then looked back down at the computer again. Sherlock's sheet was not an unusual form of dress around 221b, but John had never learned to acclimatize himself to it. He kept his eyes focused steadfast on his email, reaching blindly to sip his cup of coffee. 

Sherlock could just barely be bothered to stick two pieces of bread in the toaster and pour himself a cup of coffee. He leaned against the counter as he ate, staring at the abandoned experiments filling the kitchen table. Sherlock supposed he ought to dispose of some of the ones that were acquiring alarming coats of green, white, and black. One more thing to put off for later.

The coffee was far more enjoyable than the toast. Sherlock had never paid much attention to food, unlike his brother, but hot drinks were one of the few things that he indulged in frequently. It was a uniquely comforting feeling to be warmed from the inside out.

It required plenty of conscious effort on John’s part not to look at his flatmate until his gaze skimmed over a reply from Richard. Finally John was able to pull his eyes over the top of his laptop to fix on Sherlock. "No word from Lestrade," and John looked uncomfortable about that, "but I got a reply from Rich. He says we're welcome to come down any time to tour their studio. He sent a couple replies, actually. Seems to like sending silly photos along with them." John turned the computer around to show Sherlock a photo of Richard's face, bug-eyed and squashed together with two other cast members barely fitting in the frame, making for an extreme close up of their characters' expressions. Obviously a gag shot. 

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together, vaguely alarmed at the manic expressions visible even across the room. "Well. Tell him we'll be along in..." He paused as he calculated how quickly he was willing to move. "...an hour. An hour should do it."

He set his empty mug on the counter and swept off to indulge in a hot shower.

John blinked. "What, now?" He looked down at his phone. It had been silent all morning. As far as he could gather, that meant only one thing. Lestrade hadn't made any headway yet. And, although it was common for Sherlock to divert from one activity and move right on to another as soon as it was finished, they were still missing someone they knew. John hadn't expected that. "What if Lestrade calls?"

"We'll leave and resume the tour another time. I'm sure Brook will understand," Sherlock called back before locking himself in the washroom and shedding the sheet. A rattle of pipes announced that the faucets had been engaged.

In the privacy of white tile and steam, Sherlock allowed himself a small smile.

John bit his lip and thought about it. If they could do nothing to help the Met now, then he _would_ need something to take his mind off the worry he’d been dealing with all morning. And Sherlock had been the one to suggest it. He was possibly never going to get another chance to drag the detective out to do this, knowing his usual moods. John had to jump at the opportunity if he wanted it. Right. He picked up the phone and pulled up Rich's number while trying to refocus his thoughts on less dire matters.

"Toppah’ ta mornin’ ta yah, Jawn!" was the first thing he heard on the other end of the line. In spite of himself, it got a light chuckle out of him.

"Uhm, hello Rich. Do you always answer the phone like that?"

"Was that a bit too much Irish for you?"

"No no…. I just wanted to ask, we're…kind of in a lull in a case at the moment, and Sherlock seems to think it would be a good day to visit, do the studio tour?"

John received an emphatic "yes", one that resounded around the room from multiple voices when Richard, to show his enthusiasm, called out to ask the rest of the crew if they would like John and Sherlock to pay them a visit.

By the time they hung up, John was feeling his mood beginning to lift. It was astonishing really, how Rich and his antics managed to do that to him.

Sherlock lingered for a goodly amount of time in the comforting warmth of the shower before he could no longer put off the start of the day. He shut off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist, abandoning his bed sheet in the washroom. He left a trail of damp footprints down the hall to his bedroom while John steadfastly kept his eyes glued to the laptop screen, telling himself that it would be very inappropriate to glance through the doorway at his half naked flatmate. Promptly, he downed the rest of his coffee.

A handful of minutes later Sherlock emerged from his room garbed in crisp black and white; it didn't seem to ever occur to him to wear anything that wasn't extremely dressy or almost indecent. Sherlock might not even own a piece of clothing as casual as a jumper.

John by contrast had opted for a light blue checkered shirt with a creamy woolen jumper. He, at least, would be warm.

"Ready?" John asked, shutting the laptop and pocketing his phone.

Donning his ever-present coat and scarf, Sherlock nodded. "Ready as I'll ever be for this."

He had an ulterior motive for the visit. While he did want to make certain the programme was a good investment for their reputation, Sherlock also wanted a closer look at the technology they had available. If it looked promising, he'd make plans to return outside of business hours to do some analysis on the camera and DVD videos.

He'd been distracted by the events of the previous day, but suspicion was building in his mind. It was too much of a coincidence that two men had recently shown unusual amounts of interest in him, both with access to expensive media tech. Especially given the strange way Richard Brook had reacted to his scowls when John was distracted.

Sherlock stuck his hand in his pocket and ran a thumb over the edges of his mobile, his eyes going distant for a moment.

"Well then come on," John said with one hand holding his coat and the other on the door, waiting for Sherlock so he could lock it behind them. Once out on the street they were hit with a gust of chilly air. They sky was grey that morning and he felt the oncoming fall. John would be sorry to see summer go.

They hailed a cab and John read the studio's street address from his phone, then leaned back and fixed Sherlock with a hopeful smile. "Anything you're excited to see in particular?"

"The editing room, mostly." The downside of the trip being all of the excited cast and crew members he'd have to engage with the bare minimum of social niceties before he'd be allowed to actually get to the important parts of the visit. Perhaps John would be willing to shoulder that burden; he was much more suited to that sort of thing.

"And the contract, of course, but I'm certain much of the studio will be fairly standard in both features and capabilities."

"Oh." John understood Sherlock’s interest in the contract. The editing room seemed arbitrary. He wasn't sure what wanted to see especially, himself. The stage, he supposed. Being in front of everyone in costume and getting a sense of how television was made was something he looked forward to. Though they'd been filmed several times in various capacities, thanks to Sherlock refusing all offers, John had never been inside a real studio.

It didn't look like much from the outside when they arrived, just a big warehouse that had seen better days. Only one small number affixed to its side marked the building as the correct address, otherwise they would not have known they were in the right place.

Sherlock glanced up at the small security camera tucked near the doorframe and smiled. He might just get something out of this yet.

He hit the call button and waited a moment, turning the handle as soon as a quiet buzzer sounded. He held the door open for John and they stepped into the dark entryway. 

"Sherlock! John!"

A familiar voice echoed through the open space as soon as they turned the corner of the entryway. Rich, out of costume with his hair swept up in all directions, came rushing at them. In a bold gesture, only subdued by his shy smile, he reached out and touched his fingers to Sherlock's shoulder, ushering the pair along. "Come in, come in…"

A throng of excited people were waiting inside. The rest of the crew and most of the B. Street cast who weren't occupied edged in a semicircle around the three. Edward was the first to step forward, his hand out to Sherlock. "Good to finally meet you Mr. Holmes. My name is Edward, director of the B. Street Irregulars."

Sherlock's gaze swept over him, quickly dismissing him as a person of interest. Realizing that he'd paused overlong while determining the man's hobbies and home life, Sherlock cleared his throat and took Edward's hand. "Charmed. No, I don't want anything to drink during the tour, although John might. I _have_ been given the full sales pitch already by Mr. Brook, so don't bother, and I'd prefer we move out onto the stage if we're going to have introductions."

Releasing Edward's hand as the man froze and gaped at him, Sherlock shot John an amused look and parted the crowd like so much water, stalking off in the direction of the stage.

Rich trotted along on doe legs in their wake, shrugging apologetically to Edward as if to say "yes, he's always like that".

When they reached the staging area, a poofy haired woman in just as poofy a costume shrieked John's name. She abandoned the footwork she was going over with one of the three boys, the one who looked incredibly like a youthful Sherlock, and stepped up to give John an overly friendly hug.

"Sheryl, hi," he gave her on of his best smiles and acknowledged the greeting, awkwardly hugging her back.

"So!" Rich drew attention back to himself. "Some of you have had the pleasure of meeting before; others have not. I'm sure all of you know Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but let me introduce to you our crew…." he moved about the room as everyone gathered together, a few in costume, most carrying notes or equipment. "We have Larry who runs cinematography," a lanky blond man raised his hand, "his assistants, grips, anything and everything we need them to be, Tony and Teri", a tall man and a short woman nodded, "Stephen and Russell, they're our post-production team, editing, effects, all that jazz." Two scruffy looking fellows who might have either been brothers or had the same taste for bad clothing smiled and waved.

"And then of course the cast," Rich twirled his hands over Sheryl as if she were a fine piece of art, "the lovely Sheryl," She curtsied and tried to kick Richard at the same time. "Corey, the best sport around," Rich moved over to a sandy haired boy in a basketball uniform, "and Austin, if you've got wheels, he'll take 'em, watch out," Rich _was_ elbowed in the stomach for that one by the smallest freckled boy. "And of course! Of course, of course," he dashed over to the last boy with dark curls and startling cool blue eyes, laying his hands upon his shoulders from behind, "our studious Jake."

Sherlock scanned them each in turn, pausing once they reached Jake and meeting the boy's nervous gaze. All of them were excited and eager to impress, but the dark haired boy had another layer hidden behind all of that. Envy was mixed with awe and a small touch of fear, and why would that be?

The tension of hands and sudden stiffness of frame spoke a dozen secrets in Sherlock’s ear, causing Sherlock to shift his gaze to Rich. 

He knew, and now Rich would know he knew.

The boy drew his attention again. "I hear you're to be cast as me. Think you're up to the task?"

Colour stained Jake's cheeks and he shifted beneath Rich's hands, suddenly shy as all of his confidence drained underneath that pale gaze. "I hope so, um... sir. That is, I've really been lookin' forward to it, ever since Rich told me about the project."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth curled up slightly. "I take it that you're normally more eloquent than this," he said, watching his words sink in as Jake suddenly straightened up in irritation and pride.

"Y-yeah, I can speak well enough when it's called for. Give a bloke a break, aw'ight?" he grinned. "It's not everyday you meet Sherlock bloo-...er." At Sheryl's disapproving look, Jake decided to temper his speech. "Sherlock Holmes. Sir."

The hands on Jake's shoulders gave a reassuring squeeze. Rich's eyes were smiling, but his mouth turned up with a much more subtle mirth.

John chuckled from Sherlock's side, missing the hidden intricacies of the exchange before him. "Might not want to leave these two in a room alone together; who knows if they'd both come out."

Then Rich snapped his fingers as though he'd just remembered, moving away from Jake. "We've put out an early casting call, but we've got a lot of submissions for you, John, already. I'll show you a few when we get a minute, and Sherlock, you'll have to tell me more about the people you work with. We'll want a full cast of characters." He planted himself directly in front of the detective, eyes alight and staring up at him beneath slivers of dark brows. "Why don't we give Sherlock a quick show, hm?" he spoke brightly to the gathered crowd, but never broke Sherlock's intense gaze. "Go through one take so they can see us in action?"

Sherlock smiled, a different sort of spark lighting up his eyes as he raised an eyebrow. "Go right ahead. We need to keep things relatively short, however; I'm afraid we're still working on a case at the moment. We're in a lull period, but the moment more evidence turns up... our duties will have to take priority."

Turning to John, Sherlock gestured at the small number of folding chairs settled in front of the stage. The hollow, cheerful demeanor John had seen him put on when manipulating witnesses and suspects was in full display. "Shall we?"

"Okay, let's just do a run of the gang coming together," Edward took over again. He seemed to only just be getting used to Rich taking the lead on this project. "Pick up from Scene 2. Corey, you're entering first, Austin, try not to run him over this time, and Jake, remember to sit right between them, not too far in front, ok?"

The group scattered to their positions around the stage, the kids obviously well practiced in this scene by now since the director picked it to demonstrate their performance. Rich stepped lightly around the set to stand just behind John, out of his sight but within Sherlock's if he were to glance out of the corner of his eye. "This is one of the beginning scenes," he whispered while the kids took their places and the lights behind them lowered. "They come together only to find out Jake's lost his father's saxophone. Later they'll have to find it by its specific sound."

Once Edward was set, he called for action and the stage came alive. Corey entered from around the corner of a foam wall, bouncing his basketball expertly between his legs at each step. He set up in the center, shooting a hoop while Austin shot out from behind another wall, calling a greeting to his friend. Jake joined a beat later.

Jake ran out to join his friends, eyes wide and steps tremulous. "You guys, I'm in trouble. You'll never believe what happened to me today..."

It was a bit of a shock to hear Jake suddenly burst into a singing voice, clear and pure as he wove a melody through his tale of woe. Corey and Austin didn't merely sit still and listen - their movements were obviously choreographed as they nodded, leaned forward, rotating positions and stepping around the stage. Each verse Jake finished was answered with a peppering of musical questions and reassurances from his friends, both of whom were eager to come to the rescue. The whole scene was reminiscent of an operetta.

" _What a day, what an unbelievable day. I can't even understand how things got this way-_ "

" _Ne'er worry Jake, cuz what are good friends for?_ "

" _We'll find it before the day is done. B. Street Boys never let each other down!_ "

They clasped hands in grim determination, all turned slightly so they were facing the front of the stage in a half-circle. Jake broke into a grin of relief and gratitude, pulling his best mates into a quick hug.

"Right then. Let's get to it!"

They released each other and ran off stage to end the scene, pausing for a breath before walking back out.

John was on his feet clapping and grinning the second he was sure it wouldn't interrupt the camera crew. "That was _FANTASTIC!_ " he exclaimed. The boys reentered, all smiles at the praise. The normal interior lights came up so that the crew could be seen again.

"We'll edit the scene together from two angles," Edward indicated Larry stationed on a camera crane and his assistant with one on a dolly. "And we've got the most versatile machine's available with these two RED ones here. Russell and Steve will have to show you the difference in the editing booth."

Sherlock's gaze followed the gestures, noting each of the machines. "I'd be very interested in seeing how you edit everything together, especially when splicing different takes."

Glancing at Richard, a devilish look lit up Sherlock’s eyes for a moment and curled his mouth into a smirk before he turned to the boys on stage. "I've seen a few singing pieces from each of you in the audition tape Rich was kind enough to give us, and a bit of guitar. I'm assuming you also play other instruments?"

"Yeah, we do," Corey nodded. "I've got drums and guitar, Austin does piano and a bit of trumpet, and Jake's got guitar and violin."

Sherlock smiled, affecting a look of pleased surprise, glancing between Jake and Rich. "Did that factor into your casting decisions, Rich? Really, that's a lucky coincidence - I also play the violin."

Jake swallowed, expression suddenly torn between curiosity and nerves. "Really...?"

"I can give you a demonstration if you'd like."

Rich's eyes gleamed black beneath the lights of the stage as he grinned. It was a touch eerie until he stepped forward and allowed his brows to rise in a more open expression. "Would you play for us, Sherlock? I know the boys would _love_ it."

John crossed his arms over his chest and tried not to look too self-satisfied about knowing what was to come. His last experience with Sherlock’s violin was profound, to say the least.

One of the assistants, Terri, darted off into a closet only to return a minute later with a small instrument case. She presented it to Sherlock.

Sherlock accepted the case with a shy smile, walking up onto the stage. "You can even film it, if you like. I don't mind." Quite the opposite, in fact; Sherlock enjoyed the opportunity to show off, so long as it didn't complicate his everyday life.

He opened the case and began to tune the instrument, watching the cameraman reposition the lens now that he'd given permission to be recorded. Sherlock's expression leveled out into concentration as he plucked, tuned, and tested until he was satisfied with the instrument. It wasn't his Stradivarius, to be sure, but it would do.

Giving John and Rich one more glance and tucking the violin under his chin, his eyes lost focus as his mind went elsewhere, using all of his practiced skill to coax Ernst's Grand Caprice to thunderous life with the bow.

Lights went down around him, and jaws dropped one by one. Even Larry pulled his gaze away from the camera screen to watch Sherlock in awe.

Considered to be one of the most difficult pieces to perform, Sherlock's choice was acknowledged by only one member of his audience. Rich stepped up to the very edge of the threshold separating the concrete floor and the stage, eyes glued to Sherlock's form. His entire body coiled with tight, controlled energy, hands out hanging at his sides, feet squared shoulder width apart, head ducked, but with a curve of a smile touching his parted lips and his coal black eyes huge with blown pupils. His breath deepened in a haze bordering on lustful. If anyone's gaze happened to glance upon him, they would not have recognized the Richard they knew.

Music was one of Sherlock's weaknesses, one of the few moments when his consciousness slipped away from constantly observing and processing his surroundings and lost itself in an outpouring of wordless thoughts and emotions - for that's what it was, to him. Ill equipped and even more reluctant to express feelings in so many nouns and verbs and adjectives threaded together, pure sound was the only way he'd learned to cope and vent the elusive and intangible.

He was oblivious to his audience and surroundings until the last note was struck and the echoes died away. Sherlock lowered the bow and violin and blinked as if coming out of a dream.

Rich ate it up, every note, as if it were made of cream, and then like a chameleon shifted fluidly into Richard's usual open gaze of wonder.

Slowly, hands came together in claps that grew quickly into a staccato rhythm far less impressive than Sherlock's performance. John clapped proudly with the rest of the cast and crew. Edward made sure and doubly sure that Larry, Terri, and Tony had filmed the whole thing with the best microphones, which they had, and every angle they could manage on short notice, which they had.

Richard leaned against one of the camera stands in an affected casual pose, a very satisfied smile resting upon his lips while the others enthusiastically crowded around Sherlock. 

Sherlock's insatiable ego drank up the praise, coaxing a genuine smile out of him as he gave his audience a nod of acknowledgement instead of a bow. He tucked the violin back into its case and handed it to Terri, doing his best to disentangle himself from the crew members now invading his personal space.

He loved the awe of others, but he disliked so many of the things that went with it.

After a few minutes Sherlock was able to excuse himself and walk down the stairs to rejoin Rich and John. Jake was still staring at him with wide eyes, his complexion somewhere between ghostly and green. The boy had been thoroughly intimidated and made just a little bit jealous.

Richard turned to Sherlock, a guileless wonder in his eyes and only the faintest hint of something deeper. He smiled, showing too many teeth.

John laughed at him when he looked from the actor to Sherlock and back. "I don't think he would mind if you asked for an autograph," he stage whispered to Rich behind his hand. "He likes this sort of attention quite a lot."

Rich ignored him, his wide eyed gaze unwavering from Sherlock. "I have no words," he said softly.

Sherlock's smile flickered somewhere between honest pleasure and a self-satisfied smirk. As well as Rich disguised himself from the rest of the people in the room, it wasn't enough for Sherlock to miss that tiny spark. "You don't need words. I can read you perfectly fine without them." He arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps as our working relationship develops, you'll have the opportunity to see me perform again. For the moment, however, we really should continue with the tour."

"I'm looking forward to it," Rich replied with a smile that bordered on a leer, then snapped back to attention. "You'll want to see the sound and editing booths. After that we can visit Edward's office and give you an overview of our working relationship with the network, show you casting submissions for John, and talk about the rest of the story premise. Think you'll have the time?"

Russell and Stephen, the pair of editors, heard their cue and perked up.

"We should unless the Yard interrupts things." Sherlock stepped aside to let Rich lead them to the editing studio.

He really ought to have a word with John when this was all done. Sherlock understood that most people wandered through life completely blind, but there was no excuse for his assistant to be standing that close... yet being so unobservant. It was useful for the moment, as John would certainly have disapproved of Sherlock indulging his curiosity at the possible expense of further victims, but it would only be a liability in the long run. He'd have to train John to pay more attention to the little details.

"Right this way, boys!" Russell and Stephen jumped to the front of the group, wiping the last bits of donut grease from the refreshments table off on their trousers and sensing that this was their time to shine. Rich turned back to John and Sherlock, raising his brows and pulling the corners of his mouth down, giving them the same "yes, they're always like this" expression he'd given to Edward earlier.

They followed the two techs onward to the back of the open studio space, past sets and props to a hallway where a number of rooms had been set up. Many of them were recording booths. One or two were offices. At the end of the hall was a small editing booth equipped with two laptops, two desktops, two chairs, and piles hard drives, cords, and empty cans of energy drinks wherever there was an empty space.

"Excuse the mess." Russell took a chair. "We hole up here in post production for… a hell of a long time."

"How long does it typically take to process a scene?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious. The technical aspects of video and audio recording and editing were not his specialty. He'd only bothered learning about general computer security and hacking because it occasionally was useful on a case.

Stephen shrugged. "All depends on the scene. You playing the violin back there, since it was one shot without any extra effects, we'd just color correct. That'd take maybe ten minutes minus export time. The kids doing their singing bit would take longer… We'd drop in the audio recording first, since they'll want the pre-recorded clean version, then composite the video footage on top of it to sync up: both camera angles, and maybe add more if Ed wants to do another run and get a close up of a particular character. Then color correct and export. Really, it's the effects that take time."

Russell jumped in. "Yeah, last week we did three green screens in one episode and this magical, musical, vortexy portal thingy. And then made a wall of flashing lights behind the kids dancing. That was fun. They didn't have hundreds of lights that would hook up to a timer, so we had to make every single freakin' one."

John's eyebrows rose in sympathy while he eyed the empty cans.

"So a recording with little or no effects would take no time at all to process, but something cleaned up and enhanced would take... hours? What about encoding?" Sherlock wanted as much practical information as he could glean from Stephen and Russell. Knowing how long it would take to lace a hidden, encrypted file into an encoded video file would be helpful... both in knowing just how long someone would have to have private access to the necessary equipment, and how long it would take to decode it.

"Yeah, basically." Stephen nodded. "Encoding…. Well, when we're sending a finished piece to a network, we'll write it to an uncompressed file. For a thirty minute episode, that's gonna be huge and it takes hours, but they'll get the best sound and picture quality available. For anything else, we usually compress to a standard format, whatever the providers ask for. If we're running a segment on a website, we'll either stream a flash video or an mp4. We sometimes send hard copies on disk as samples, in that case we export to a medium sized file and write it as a regular DVD." He shrugged. "We don't like to give out a bunch of those, but at this stage we don't usually have to worry about anyone ripping and leaking the samples. Ed does make sure we lock these machines up with the best security we've got though. Paranoia, I think."

"Understandable. No business appreciates having data leaked."

There were a lot of spare hard drives hidden among the debris of the room. If the clues he was looking for weren't hidden on the computers' main drives, it would take a while to scan through the rest... provided he was able to gain access to the system in the first place.

Noting the presence of a duster can on one of the many dirty shelves, Sherlock began formulating a plan.

"Here, let's do a quick demo." Russell jumped in again, booting up one of the desktops and entering a passphrase noticeably long even to John's oblivious gaze.

One could tell that the pair worked together very often. They could have been brothers, but were probably just two blokes with similar interests, and John in particular felt it would be too awkward to ask. He looked at Sherlock, whose attention was rapt, and couldn't imagine them ever having a working relationship like these two. John was simply not on par with Sherlock's abilities.

They loaded up the footage from the episode with the wall of lights, and indeed there were hundreds if not more. They were set up in a 3 dimensional environment within the editing software, each light controlled by a grid. The film of the kids dancing was placed on a layer above it with their original background replaced with the background lights. Stephen began explaining how it all fit together while Russell moved through the footage timeline. As the kids sang, the background grid scrolled lyrics behind them, the individual lights lighting up to form words, fireworks, and a rainbow of colors.

Stephen was just starting on how they added the specular bounce to reflect hue on the real actors when Rich interrupted him. "Gentlemen! We ARE on a schedule."

"Indeed." As enthusiastic as the pair were about their work, Sherlock could tell they weren't in on any foul play that might be going on under their noses. Unless their acting skills were phenomenal, they simply weren't capable of hiding the small subconscious indications of nervousness. Sherlock would venture to say that of the crew members he'd met, only Richard had the necessary skill to mask his core thoroughly when focused.

That then begged the question of who all had the access passwords to these systems. He was going as much off instinct as he was probability.

"Hey, I know. How about we send you a cleaned up copy of you on the violin, yeah?" Russell scratched his unruly facial hair thoughtfully. "Probably won't have it ready by the time you head out, we've got to help Terri and Tony set up back at the stage in a minute, but we could put it together for you tomorrow."

"That would be _fantastic_ ," John replied for Sherlock. He'd love a copy. He'd love to put it on his blog. If Sherlock would let him. His eyes grew big, almost shining at the thought.

Sherlock's attention was diverted by John's expression - really, he had no idea how an army medic could be so... so _enthusiastically innocent_. "If you would," he concurred, a ghost of a smile disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. Perhaps a small piece of happiness would take the edge off of John's distress when Donovan's death was finally discovered.

"Rich, I believe you mentioned going to Edward's office to discuss network and casting."

"Yes, yes I did," Rich said perkily. "Thank you Russell, Stephen…you've been _overly_ thorough." And with that, he swept out of the room with all the grace of an actor. The motion mimicked a common one of Sherlock's, albeit in a smaller body.

"Thank you!" John waved as they left.

Russell and Stephen could be heard picking up quickly and shutting down their computer as Rich led them the opposite way down the hall. "John, I have three actors in mind who could fit you very well," he began, opening the door to what was supposedly Edward's office.

Sherlock suddenly frowned and thrust a hand into his pocket, retrieving his mobile and tapping the screen. "...excuse me for a moment. Case work," he muttered, gesturing for John to stay put. "Confidential. I'll be back in a moment."

He retreated around the corner, ostensibly to call Scotland Yard in relative privacy. As soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock quickly returned to the editing room. Russell and Stephen had already left for the stage - perfect. Sherlock shut the door and got to work on the protective panel on the computer. He only had a window of a few minutes, in more ways than one.

Quickly wrenching the panel off, Sherlock snatched up the gas canister he'd spotted earlier. Reaching in and unlocking the snaps that kept the RAM in place in the guts of the computer, he pried them loose and used the canister to rapidly cool them off.

He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped the components up, tucking the bundle back into his coat. He'd have to analyse it for the passcode as soon as he could - even cooled, the RAM would only store data for so long.

Sherlock replaced the computer's case and exited the room, retracing his steps back to the office.

Rich glanced up from where he was bent over the desk. John sat across from him, with printed files spread out between them. It looked like Rich had made them up specifically for John to take home and look over, judging from the tabs and notes written on each.

"Everything alright?" John turned and asked with a note of apprehension.

"I told Lestrade not to bother me unless there were new developments of importance. The status of the excavation is not important if they haven't actually _found_ anything yet," Sherlock snapped with impatience. He slid into a chair next to John, taking a breath and letting his expression drop back to neutral interest. "What did I miss?"

Some of the tension in John's body eased visibly. "These are the top three submissions they've had to play me so far," John indicated the files before him. "Rich wants me to take them home and look through their work."

Rich nodded with an eye on Sherlock. "They're actors who've worked with the studio before, since we haven't done an official casting call. We'll have more in shortly. Also, we'll need to know more about who you work with. We'll want a police investigator in the cast, definitely. "

Sherlock shot Rich a considering look, silent for a long moment. It was a risk, certainly... but what better way to get him to slip? It would give Sherlock ample opportunity to observe Richard in a variety of situations, as well as a good excuse to isolate him for periods of time. Sherlock was confident he could neutralize the actor should he begin to pose a threat... and that he could neutralize all the loose ends once it came time to unmask him.

"If you've got a strong stomach, why don't you shadow us for a while?" he suggested. "It's far more useful to observe the real thing than simply hear a recitation of facts, for this sort of thing. You might have to be excluded from some areas or sign a confidentiality agreement with the Yard, but it would give you a chance to see the team that works with us."

"Oh…" Rich's eyes slid like oil past Sherlock to a corner of the room, thinking for only a moment. "Really? You wouldn't mind me tagging along?" A smile touched his lips and his brows quirked up.

John, surprised, looked between Sherlock and Rich. That had been the very _last_ thing he'd expected from his extremely private, antisocial flatmate. But if Sherlock was sure, which he seemed to be, then… John rather liked the idea. Maybe he wouldn't be the only one chasing Sherlock's heels on a scene, totally out of his depth. He smiled brightly at Rich.

"Well," Rich smiled wide in return, straightening up and clapping his hands together. "I'd be honored!"

Sherlock smiled, a dark sort of thrill twining around his core. Inviting his primary homicide suspect out to investigate the scenes with them. He'd have to think up a way to make it up to John when this was finished, as his flatmate would probably attempt to murder him for letting his curiosity get the better of him.

"We'll discuss it with the Yard. Lestrade can't do without me, so he's likely to indulge my request. You may regret agreeing to this later," he added, mischief sparking in his eyes. "John doesn't complain _too_ often about being dragged out of bed at all hours to go look at corpses, although I suspect he's adjusted to it by now."

John scratched the back of his head self-consciously. "Probably."

"I won't know until I try. I can be a bit of an insomniac anyway," Rich said with a shrug and a grin. He pulled the files back into their folders to sit neatly between them. His expression melted into one of curiosity. "What is it you're working on now? You keep mentioning a case…?"

"I already discussed a bit of it, briefly, when we ran into each other at the coffee shop," Sherlock reminded Rich, watching intently. "The fanatic admirer. He's moved on from chainsaws, book defacings, and theft to police assassinations, kidnapping, and arson. It's been interesting and kept us on our toes, I'll give him that much."

Rich's brows rose into a look of schooled shock. "The same one, then? I saw it on the news yesterday. Everyone in the neighborhood has been just _hysterical_ over it."

An odd choice of words, John noticed, but Rich's expression conveyed serious concern. "One of our friends has gone missing," John added, not caring that Sherlock would likely take offense to him referring to Sally Donovan as a friend. "That's why we're a bit, ah… jumpy."

Rich dropped into Ed's chair. "Oh, dear me."

Sherlock's brow furrowed at John qualifying Donovan as a friend. The fact that she'd been quite the opposite, and a danger, was what had done her in. "It's only a matter of time before she's found, but... well, you can imagine the concern for what state we might find her in. The Yard _has_ just had a number of their own cut down. But yes, it's the same one - a piece of code left at the crime scene, and I knew all of the cops involved, one way or another." If one counted forgettable interactions as 'knowing' someone.

"How very intriguing…." Rich mused, leaning back. "I can only imagine the kind of disorder this has put the Met into. The city is practically under lockdown."

John nodded, exhaling slowly. "Honestly we haven't had much time to watch what they're telling the press. We had to dodge them all night. But yeah, it's bad."

Rich leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, fixing his eyes to Sherlock with an innocent air about him. "And you're no closer to catching your culprit?"

"I wouldn't say that," Sherlock replied coolly, his eyes going dark. "This murderer has been purposefully leaving a trail. He wants to impress, and he wants to get caught at some point. It's just a matter of when, how, and by whom. This isn't going to be a Zodiac case where the culprit just taunts everyone with riddles and then vanishes off the face of the earth."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, outwardly relaxed even as manic energy hummed inside him. "He's playing a game, and I think he's enjoying himself so far, but this is a game that can only be played when your opponent willingly plays along."

"And are the police playing along so far?" Rich cocked his head to the side. He was looking at Sherlock, but he seemed to be aware of John's presence as well. "Or rather, are _you_?"

John watched the exchange curiously. He wasn't sure why Sherlock was opening up with so much detail to Richard. It could be just another case of him showing off, but he sensed an underlying intensity there.

"The police are involved, but they're not the focus," Sherlock shrugged. "I'm the only person the murderer really wants to play with. For the moment, I don't have many options but to play. I think there might be some spectacular fireworks if I tried to refuse. I will say, life hasn't been dull lately. It's not often I'm up against someone who's actually a challenge."

Sherlock could feel John's eyes on him, but he didn't dare look away from Rich and risk missing something.

John was staring at that point. He really wished this was a moment where he could tell Sherlock to shut up like he sometimes had to in front of the police. With just the three of them in such a small space, however, it wouldn't work. Instead, John tried for kicking him in the shin.

But Richard surprisingly didn't seem to be put off by Sherlock's insensitive audacity. His eyes were smiling, even John could tell. "I'm in for quite a show, I would imagine."

Sherlock felt a sharp pain in his leg and smiled. John never disappointed. "Very likely. Just don't draw too much attention to yourself, and you should be fine, aside from being hounded by the media."

"But all of this can be addressed later," he continued. "John, if you're done looking at the casting files, we should look at the actual licensing contract that's being proposed."

"Right," and Rich was instantly professional once more. He opened a cabinet underneath the desk and pulled out another packet of papers. "This should outline everything for you, and we can work through terms as needed."

John leaned forward while Rich turned the document upside down for him to see.

"I'll send it off with you and you can go over it if you'd like. What we're proposing now is a series of twelve 30 minute episodes to be broadcast the next television season on the CBBC. You retain rights to everything, your names, your work, etc. and hold the option to have me change anything you see fit in the script."

"A copy for reviewal will work nicely. We can return our response and signed paperwork in a few days." That should give them plenty of time to read and discuss everything. Perhaps the opportunity would survive even after Richard Brook was proven to be the murderer; the supplemental income from royalties would certainly soothe John’s constant worries about money.

"Certainly." Rich folded the paper into the file folder with the John Watson hopefuls and stood. "Well, that's everything."

John stood to shake Rich's hand, the formality of the moment striking him though he felt at that point Rich was more like a friendly acquaintance than a business partner. "We do appreciate you all taking the time to show us around."

"Would you like to say goodbye to the cast and crew before you leave?" Rich asked.

"I'm sure they have better things to do than see us out." Really, accommodating one more round of meet-and-greet would only ensure that they got stuck in banal, pointless conversation for at least another half hour. Besides, there was the matter of the RAM chip in his pocket - he needed to get it analyzed before the data completely disappeared.

There was one more test Sherlock wanted to try. Retrieving his mobile from his pocket, he flicked it open to send a text, typing while he spoke. "We'll contact you when there's an opportunity for you to accompany us." _Are you enjoying the game thus far? -SH_

Richard paused, closed his eyes for a moment, and looked as though he were experiencing something quite pleasurable.

John smiled and tried to figure out what he'd missed.

When Rich opened his eyes again, he took a breath and replied, "That will do quite nicely." He straightened, moving around the desk, and as he did so, sitting low inside the pocket of his trousers could be seen the faint outline of a mobile phone. Richard made to take them out the side of the building instead of leading them all the way through the way through to the front.

Sherlock stood and followed along, head tilted down as he thought. A monstrous, victorious grin pulled at his mouth before he noticed it and stripped it away. Sometimes, it was lucky that John was unobservant. "Don't book too many events over the next few days. We haven't been given a lot of breathing room thus far. I have a feeling we'll be seeing more action soon."

When they exited the side door, the transition from the darkness of the studio to the sunlight outside was blinding.

"Just don't forget about me, now," Richard said in a playful tone as he waved goodbye. He winked at Sherlock, and John was reminded of the day he'd first met Sherlock, who'd done the very same to him.

John waved back until Rich closed the door behind them and then turned around to face the day. "He seemed to be in a very good mood," he commented after a beat.

"Yes, he did. Especially towards the end." Part of Sherlock wanted to turn around and drag the man somewhere quiet and isolated, find out what made him tick. Patience had never been one of his strong suits, not when something had really grabbed his attention.

"We're going to Scotland Yard," Sherlock stated, brooking no argument. "There's something I want to check, and it will give us an opportunity to see if Lestrade's made any progress."

John gave him a curious look. He could tell Sherlock was onto something, but not what. They walked to the street and had to go a little way before they found a cab. John couldn't keep his curiosity in check any longer. "Have you thought of something?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he was interrupted by Sherlock's phone.

_Absolutely. -M_

_I'm glad you were impressed with the show. Rather bold, hiding in plain sight. Except from me. -SH_ Sherlock typed out a quick response and pocketed the mobile.

"Something like that. I need to use some of the software at the Yard for a moment." Sherlock didn't want to tip his hand and alert John to who he no longer suspected, but _knew_ to be the killer. All of these half-truths and obfuscations were getting tedious.

"Alright, then." John trudged into the cab after Sherlock. This would be one of those 'you'll see when we get there' sorts of things, apparently.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for our absence. Due to reasons unforeseeable and unavoidable, we had to take time away from editing chapters. (The world is also now safe from the diabolical forces of doom, you’re welcome.) But we’re back now and should be posting regularly once again!

They made the trek back to Scotland Yard, where it was almost impossible to get to the door around the media vans and groups of public demonstrators, mixed in with mourners for the lost officers. Memorials had been placed at the sides of the station with lit candles and a growing mass of photographs and letters from loved ones and well-wishers alike.

It made John's heart sink to see. He hadn't witnessed that many of these things since the war. He followed Sherlock as quickly as they could get around the crowds.

Sherlock barely glanced at the memorials. He knew that the ritual and visuals brought a measure of comfort to people, but he didn't understand making that pain so very public. He had very different associations for collections of mementoes and photographs, and the feelings they evoked for him were anything but comforting.

He turned to John as soon as they were inside the station. "Check in with Lestrade. I should only be a few minutes."

"But, where are you going?" John asked to Sherlock's back as he retreated down the hall. It was no use. John huffed in frustration. Apparently this was _not_ going to be one of those 'you'll see when we get there' sorts of things after all. He would remember to ask Sherlock about it later though. Persistence sometimes paid off.

John made his way off in the other direction to find Lestrade, if he wasn't still down in Battersea.

Sherlock snuck through the hallways until he reached the computer lab near the cyber crimes division. It was simplicity itself to let himself in, the room completely deserted.

It took only a matter of minutes to find a computer with the right hook-ups, guess the password, and place the RAM into a slot for analysis. A few mouse clicks and the computer set to pulling the preserved data off of the RAM.

Sherlock had it; buried in the strings of data was the piece he was looking for. He now possessed the key to access the editing computers at the studio. All he had to do was pay a nighttime visit.

The detective retrieved the RAM and logged off the computer, exiting the lab as discreetly as possible. He'd have to make time later to mine the studio computers for incriminating evidence.

It took John several long minutes to find Lestrade rushing back and forth between offices. The DI looked even worse than he had the night prior. There was a sluggishness to his pace John noticed when he spotted him across the room. It became more pronounced the closer John came, until Lestrade noticed him and waved him over. Once near enough, John realized the downtrodden look was more than just tiredness. Something had happened, something very bad.

"I was just about to call you," Greg began. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's here, said he had to take care of something for a minute. What's happened?"

Lestrade sat heavily upon an empty desk. "Crew up at the Hampstead house just found her. Sally was in that fire."

John felt his skin go cold. His expression must have shown quite clearly because Greg motioned for him to sit down, which he did.

_Sally, Sergeant Donovan, was dead._ He couldn't believe it, even though he’d been worried all morning for this very reason. They had worked together. She didn't like him that much, liked Sherlock even less, and he felt a cool dislike for her in return, but she was one of them. She was a _comrade_. And Sherlock had been there when the place had gone up. He'd nearly been caught in the fire himself. If this M had waited a minute longer, he’d have trapped Sherlock too.

John winced at the thought. His gut clenched tight. He couldn't think about losing Sherlock like that. "Jesus," he breathed.

Coming around the corner, Sherlock spotted them and wove his way between the desks, painting concern across his features. Their complexions and body language told him everything he needed to know: they'd found Sally.

"What's happened?" he asked, touching John's shoulder in reassurance before turning his gaze to Greg.

Greg swallowed, having to say it again, but he was forward about it. Probably forced himself to be. "We've called off the search for Donovan… We just found her body in the fire. She died there last night." He heaved a sigh that went through his whole body. "And we're still grasping at straws trying to find anything, anything at all. You saw the circus out there on our doorstep? All I have to tell them is that we've got eight dead officers and a dead end trail." 

Sherlock exhaled sharply and let his head fall forward, doing his best to project some amount of empathy. "Has anyone made any progress on the encryption? It has to mean something. He's not doing this at random. If we can figure out the motivation, the real end goal, we'll be able to predict his next moves and position ourselves ahead of him to stop it."

Sherlock paused, then looked up to lock eyes with Greg. "Have you put extra security on everyone in the force who's had contact with me? A system to determine that calls and texts are from the right people? We cannot allow this to happen again."

"We're pairing people up now. And offers with families are bringing them here or have got hotel rooms booked. If we could figure out _how_ the fake calls were coming in, we could stop them. As it is, we're having everyone double confirm any order they get with a third party or the office. Not ideal by a long shot." Greg scrubbed his hands over his face. "As for those sets of letters we're finding… not a thing. Our guys just don't have anywhere to start. We've got two sets of them now, fourteen letters in all, but they need a…a key of some sort to turn it into anything that makes sense. _If_ it's even a message that makes sense."

"It's true that there's a possibility they're a red herring," Sherlock agreed verbally, though he personally suspected otherwise.

"First priority is to keep everyone safe. I'm working on a theory- and no, I can't tell you yet. I don't want to get your hopes up and have confirmation bias come into play, and there's a distinct possibility that there's at least one mole among the officers. I need time, and I need the spotlight off me. Everything we've seen thus far shows that the murderer is keeping tabs on me one way or another, and we need a false sense of security to get him to make a mistake."

"If that's the best I can do for you, you've got it." Lestrade nodded. Sherlock was his only hope so far. "Although I'd appreciate knowing what this theory is sooner rather than later."

John bit his lip, looking Lestrade over. "You should get some sleep." At the DI's flash of eyes, he added, "That's my _professional_ opinion," and only then did Greg surrender.

"I know. Not much I can do here now."

"I'll let you know once I have tangible proof," Sherlock said, watching Lestrade wilt from physical and emotional exhaustion. He hoped it would be enough to keep the DI at bay for a little while. "I know you want something to feed the media, but you have to be patient."

Sherlock touched John's shoulder again, indicating that it was time to go. There was nothing more he could do here.

John wanted to do something for Lestrade. But Sally had hated Sherlock, and…John hadn't been very fond of her at the end either. How could he offer his ear to Lestrade if it meant the DI would be confiding in one of her enemies? Or, at least the friend of her enemy. He hesitated before leaving, mustering courage. "Greg…if you ever need to talk, just call. Yeah?"

Lestrade looked up a little surprised. The offer seemed to be met without offense though. "Yeah. Thanks John."

Sherlock watched the exchange, feeling dissatisfied and grateful at the same time. He hadn't liked Sally even before she'd crossed the line, and he disliked the idea of John painting a rosy post-mortem picture of her, even to console another... but he needed Lestrade. He needed Greg functional and willing to work with him, and John was able to offer the shoulder and olive branch that he never could in order to make that happen.

His flatmate hadn't been in his life for that long, and already Sherlock couldn't fathom life without him. The codependency that that suggested was rather worrying.

They walked out of the station together and flagged a cab, heading back to 221B.

Their cab rides together had been quiet as of late. This time John spent it looking out the window while he contemplated Sally Donovan.

John felt more guilty than not. At first he thought she had been the one to start the fight…but no, he had simply walked in on a fight that had already begun. They'd actually gotten along, relatively speaking, in the beginning. She'd offer him bold advice and he'd take it politely and then disregard it, and they'd gone on like that for some time. She saw him as some poor unfortunate that Sherlock picked up and snake-charmed into liking him. John had been able to tell though, if it hadn't been for that, he and Sally would have gotten along well. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. The only consolation he could give himself was the belief that he hadn't really disliked her, he'd just disliked her convictions against Sherlock.

By the time they were walking up the steps, John felt only a little more centered.

Sherlock let them into the flat, shrugging off his coat and striding into the living room. He seemed to be at a loss, staring out the windows in silence. He couldn't go back to the studio until well after dark.

He shook himself. There was still work that could be done. "John, I know you will want time to... process, but I need your assistance. I need you to find out what the model of the chainsaw camera is and, from there, how difficult it would be to purchase. Also, whether there are any current theories on how to hack into and reroute mobile calls without inserting subversive hardware into a significant number of signal towers."

Sherlock grabbed his small, black laptop. He had his own personal research to do.

John nodded, putting away his coat. He went to pick up the camera and his own laptop and set up in his armchair, fluffing up a pillow behind him. "And what is it you're up to?"

Sherlock looked like he had a plan, or at least the beginnings of one, but John was still in the dark. This was not particularly unusual, especially if Sherlock wasn't certain about what he'd find himself, but this wasn't one of their usual cases either. If their cases could ever be called usual.

"Trying to connect dots I can't see yet," Sherlock replied cryptically, settling himself on the sofa and perching his laptop on his knees. "There's a pattern behind all of this that's more than simply targeting people and things because I'm tied to them somehow. I need to figure out _why_."

Sherlock clicked up his browser, opening a number of search tabs to disguise his real aim should John happen to walk by. In another window, he started the search for Richard Brook. He wasn't going to stand idly by while the man called all the shots and kept him running to keep up.

John twisted his lips. He wasn't getting much out of Sherlock at all, and he suspected that it did have a lot to do with Sherlock simply not knowing what they were searching for yet. But… "So what was the trip to the Yard for? We could have just called Lestrade." John decided he was going to be persistent after all. 

Sherlock's mouth narrowed in annoyance. He didn't want to hand John too many pieces of information and have him ruin everything before its due time. "Not without explaining to Lestrade why I was requesting the information I was. Given how many officers have died recently, admitting that I've withheld pieces of evidence, even if they would not have prevented the deaths, would have been problematic. There are analysis programs that I only have access to at the station, and I didn't have time for another fight."

"Hm." John exhaled and refocused on his computer. Sherlock must have not found much then. Still, he was being vague. 

As there was no serial number, manufacturer, nor identification of any kind on the camera, John did not have much to go on besides generic searches of "spy cams", "miniature cameras", and surprisingly "sports cameras". John began to hunt. He found quite an array of them, actually. Cameras to mount on a bicycle helmet, cameras hidden in pens, cameras hidden in keychains… Theirs could have come from any one of these, just stripped of its backing. They all used SD storage and claimed battery life of about two hours.

"I'm finding a lot here, but it could be any of these." John shifted uncomfortably.

"So they're easy to purchase. That doesn't narrow things down." Sherlock's voice carried a tinge of disappointment. The content of the camera was helpful as evidence, but the purchase itself wouldn't be uniquely suspicious. If it was truly a simple item to obtain, it was possible it was even bought with cash, leaving no paper trail behind.

Richard Brook turned out to have a fair number of pages about him scattered around the internet, all appearing perfectly legitimate, all the sorts of things one would expect from a small-time actor for stage and television. Despite the commonality of his name, it was a simple matter to look up his address and confirm it with public records.

"Looks like," John said. He leaned his head back for a moment, thinking of Lestrade and wondering if he'd taken John's advice about getting some rest or not. He thought about turning on the telly to see whether the media had been notified of Donovan's death yet, but decided against it. He didn't need to see that right now.

John stared out the window, at the sun shining through. It should have made the room warmer, it was sunshine, but its light only felt harsh and cold. It was the kind of sun that reflects off crisp frost and brings the temperature down several degrees. He wondered how Donovan's death would affect the rest of the division. He wondered if they would perceive John and Sherlock in the same way they always had, or whether her parting words about the consulting detective would stick.

Sherlock found that Richard's flat, if he truly lived there, was conveniently located near the studio itself. Sherlock could quickly and easily hit both targets just as soon as the opportunity presented itself. All he had to do was wait for John to retire for the evening.

Sherlock peered at him over the edge of his laptop. The worry lines in John's face seemed so much deeper today. Sherlock wasn't certain whether this level of emotion was a normal reaction or if John was just especially empathetic and emotionally sensitive. He looked miserable. "John? Are you going to be alright?"

It was funny how Sherlock made that question sound much more practical than compassionate. John wondered whether it would be too much of a hindrance if he wasn't. He sighed. "Yes. I will be. Just…give me time." He glanced over to meet Sherlock's intent gaze. He looked perfectly composed, his dark curls falling neatly over his forehead as though he'd arranged them that way by hand. "People get like this when someone they know…passes away, you know. It's quite common, I assure you."

"I know, John. It's not like I've never had relatives die." Sherlock's voice sounded oddly hollow, his face impassive. There was something off about it, a rigidness that wasn't there when he normally made blunt statements. John was staring at him. Sherlock shifted on the couch, not certain if this was one of those moments where he was supposed to stare back, or the type where he was supposed to politely avert his eyes.

John didn't seem to expect either reaction. He just stared curiously. Something in Sherlock's tone was definitely…unusual, like it could have been one of those statements that were awkward because they were true. He thought maybe he should let it go. Sherlock was uncomfortable now, and John was already uncomfortable himself about asking Sherlock questions all day to which he'd only received vague replies. He decided to let this one go, but filed it away in his mental list of peculiar things about Sherlock.

"Right. I'm…sorry." John's eyes fell back to his keyboard.

"Why would you need to be sorry?" Sherlock asked, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone. John seemed to think his constant questions offended him. If anything, most of the time John's curiosity was flattering. It was nice to have someone who didn't view him as either a freak or a tool to be used. It boosted his ego precisely because John found him interesting as an individual, not as a psychological anomaly.

Now it was John's turn to shift uncomfortably. "Well, I mean…" Now he was in a bit of a situation. If he said he was "sorry for Sherlock's loss", it would sound both trite and assuming. He could turn that around and ask if Sherlock didn't mind his constant questions, why then was he responding so vaguely? But he didn't feel up to a petty argument. He decided to just have out with it. He looked back up at Sherlock. "Have you? Had someone die?"

"My father, quite a few years ago. And a handful of other relatives, but they were more distant, both literally and figuratively." The hollow quality to his voice had returned. Sherlock turned his gaze downward and began to close down the tabs of his web browser and wipe the history; he didn't want to leave any traces for John to find if he was curious later.

_Now_ John was sorry. His brows folded together as he watched Sherlock. He hadn't been aware that Sherlock's father was dead. Once more he was reminded of how little knew about Sherlock's life before him. He swallowed. "Can I…can I ask how?"

Sherlock closed his laptop, the history wipe complete. He set it aside and locked eyes with John, speaking like he was listing the components of a chemical reaction. "We were playing a game together, I hid in a cabinet, and I watched an assassin sneak up behind him while he was looking for me and shoot him in the head. Supposedly. I can't remember it. I'm told they originally thought I'd been kidnapped. They searched the house and grounds and found me still stuck in the cupboard." He shrugged.

John was…shocked. He stared for a minute, mouth open. Then he pursed his lips in confusion. "You were told all that…what do you mean you can't remember? How young were you?" He could picture the scene in his head from Sherlock's description, but he could only imagine what kind of man the elder Holmes had been. Had his father been in a position like Mycroft held now, volatile enough to warrant assassination?

"Six. Mycroft found me. He was thirteen," Sherlock helpfully added. The age difference between them wasn't always obvious now that they were older. "My mother and the authorities all tried to get me to remember what I saw, since there were no other witnesses or recordings. I never did, and they never caught whoever did it. Mother wasn't pleased," he added, a bitter note entering his tone, the first deviation from the bizarre flatness he'd started with.

John felt a cold shiver down his spine. He could only imagine what that must have been like for Sherlock, or for the rest of his family. John knew perfectly well that at six years old, he should have been able to remember what had happened just fine. He had plenty of memories of his own at that age. However it had happened, that detail was worrisome. Normally, he was wary of cases of unexplained memory loss, but as a medical professional, several possibilities came to mind. Not the least of which was a concussive head injury. "Were you hurt when it happened?"

"No, not at all. As far as anyone could tell, the assassin didn't spot me, didn't even know someone else was in the room." Sherlock frowned slightly; John looked very disturbed... but his eyes were still clear. No signs that he was slipping into a flashback, but he was obviously bothered by the story.

John shifted under Sherlock's gaze. It was an extraordinary and very personal story for him to share with John. Yet Sherlock told it as though he were reciting the details of a case. And then it clicked. "You tried to find out, didn't you? You tried to find out who did it, or who was behind it." ‘And you never could’, went unspoken.

"Of course I did. Too much time had passed, there was too little evidence. Too many possibilities as to who it could have been." Ah, he could see where John was going with this - he could almost reach out and touch the gossamer thoughts as they flowed behind his eyes. Sherlock gave him a ghost of a smile. "No, John. I didn't decide to become an investigator out of a sense of thwarted justice and childhood trauma, although you wouldn't be the first to suggest it."

John closed his mouth, but he did wonder when all that had started for Sherlock. Right away? Years later? Or when he had grown up?

John detected a note of cynicism in his friend’s quick rejection of the idea formulating in his mind. "Hm…" John looked thoughtful for a moment, then boldly raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "Then why _did_ you become an investigator?"

"That's a much longer story, although I suppose we have time if you're truly interested." There would be periods he'd prefer to gloss over, but he saw little harm in telling John a few things. His flatmate had proven remarkably loyal and trustworthy.

John closed his laptop and set it aside. He drew his legs up on the chair with him. It was a position more commonly seen from Sherlock, but John's leg felt well enough today and he wanted to be comfortable. This was a rare opportunity. "Okay," he began, opening the stage, "I would like to know. How did the great Sherlock Holmes begin?"

"Some of this won't make much sense without knowing my family," Sherlock said, leaning back and propping his feet on the table. He might as well get comfortable. "I'm assuming, since you're not an idiot, that you're aware of the peerage system here in Britain, the participating families and so forth. Families that hold hereditary peerage titles have certain expectations regarding other family members, in all aspects of their lives. It's... a bit like that, but extends to the rest of the family on the mainland."

Slowly, John nodded. A mild sense of trepidation pooled within him. From what he could see, Sherlock was not at all conforming to any sort of familial bonds. From what he'd heard, the small amount that he had anyway, Sherlock's family was quite the opposite. If they were all well-to-do and Sherlock meanwhile had to open his life up to a flatshare for financial reasons, well…it didn't take a detective to see that there must have been some sort of falling-out there.

Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, trying to calculate the best way to state matters and have John take them seriously. Whether he even should be trusting his colleague with this. "...I'm going to be blunt, John. You can't repeat what I'm going to tell you to anyone else. Not that you'll have an easy time convincing anyone else, but trying to do so will cause problems that neither of us need. I need your word on this."

John shifted again, pulling his knees in closer. He had a feeling about where this was going. If the rest of Sherlock's family was at all similar to Mycroft, who, quoting Sherlock, " _was_ the British government", then there might be some understandable security risks involved. He didn't think it would be that much trouble not to talk about Sherlock's family. Whoever they might be, they obviously weren't in his life very often. "Alright."

Sherlock nodded, apparently satisfied with the truthfulness of John's response. "This will sound unreasonably melodramatic, but the simplest way to describe things would be to have you picture Britain's landed class, combine it with the Italian mafia, and spread it through several countries." He paused for a moment, half expecting to hear a laugh from John; none came.

"Depending on one's disposition and, sometimes, order of birth, there are certain expectations. Several types of careers that family members typically are encouraged to pursue. Politics and finance are very common, as are the hard sciences. On the other end of the spectrum, there's also a tradition of artists. I realize the idea of inherited personality types went out of style a good number of decades ago, but the attitude still persists. My brother was slotted to inherit the Holmes' peerage status, and so he was encouraged to pursue politics. I was pushed towards both the sciences and the arts."

"I was started on the violin soon after my father's death, was privately tutored for a few years, then sent to Eton. Then Oxford. It didn't go well. It was boring and full of pointless activities and rules for the sake of having rules. I got bored."

John gave one slow drop of his chin that might have been a nod, but seemed more like an expression of awe. At first, he imagined Mycroft, multiplied, and working in various positions throughout the government or corporations in the private sector. Then he imagined a variation of Sherlock himself, older, probably just as arrogant and eccentric, cloistered away in chemical labs and architectural studios.

"I would imagine they didn't take to that kindly?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched. A sudden nicotine craving hit him, undoubtedly brought on by the unpleasant memories. Sherlock rose and went to grab a couple of patches from the box on top of the fireplace. "No, they didn't take it well when I flunked out of Chemistry and subsequently dropped out. Neither did I."

Sleeve rolled up and three fresh patches gracing his skin, Sherlock returned to the sofa, studiously avoiding John's gaze. "After a certain point I lost my patience with all of it and disappeared for a while. I tried various things. Everywhere was the same. Pointless. Boring. Endless routine, no excitement, nothing stimulating. I stopped trying and, since the family was no longer bankrolling me and I wasn't going to crawl back to them, I ended up on the street."

John didn't move, but he felt his breath deepen. That was bad, worse than he'd imagined. The resentment Sherlock felt for himself over his failure with chemistry stood out to him. That was the bit that worried John. It would be easier to say that his family had unrealistic expectations even for the brightest of minds, and maybe that was why Sherlock had been so _bored_ in the first place. He needed a subject that kept him challenged. But that little comment let John know that Sherlock still had valued their opinion. He couldn't have been proud of himself on the street. "How did you get out?"

"I didn't, not for years. I'm sure people must think it's dangerous and exciting, but even _that_ was boring. I started trying things, just to have some sort of distraction, then decided it was easier to make my own. And more useful, since it was a skill other people valued." The conversation was like pulling teeth, distinctly unpleasant, but he'd already admitted his previous addictions to John once before. It was easier somehow, once the other party already knew.

"I got too distracted one night and got caught. It was a smaller station, not Scotland Yard proper, and I overheard a few officers griping about cases they were working on. I had nothing else to do, so I solved them, and they brought me more. And then they started to wonder if I'd participated in all of the crimes, since I knew so much about all of them, but at that point Mycroft had managed to track me down and bailed me out," he muttered, his expression souring at the memory. At the remembered look of disappointment and, worse, _pity_ , that had never quite faded.

Something in John's gut twisted then. "So you…started working on cases because you had…nothing better to do. Not…not because you liked it?" Wasn't it Sherlock's calling? The work, the one thing that kept him motivated and held value above all else, didn't that mean more to him than simply staving off the boredom? John's brows furrowed together.

"At the beginning, yes. I hadn't even considered it as an option before, after being dissuaded from the path when I was younger, but it was... enjoyable. And interesting, and with a certain amount of variety. I lost Mycroft again, but I found I couldn't stay away. A contact managed to get me a police radio and I started exploring crime scenes after the Yard left. They missed a shocking amount of evidence. I started phoning them tips, but word had gotten around the stations at that point - they weren't quite _that_ stupid. They knew who was calling."

"Some of the police decided that it was worth ignoring my... state," Sherlock put it delicately, "if it got them results and, thus, promotions. They eventually no longer cared if I showed up at crimes scenes and walked them through what I could deduce. Their superiors got wind of it after a while and I got arrested again. Mycroft made certain I didn't disappear again and forced me to get clean, then arranged some sort of deal with the Yard. I'd been working with them for about two years before we met."

John was stunned. He'd thought Sherlock had been doing this sort of thing for much longer, if not professionally. The idea that it was in his nature, yet went untapped for so long…due to the narcotics, the living situation, the family…John found that awful. Had Sherlock's work been the only thing that saved him from a life of destitution?

"Was Lestrade one of those officers? Who you helped move up the ladder?" It would explain a lot between them.

"My brother refuses to tell me who exactly he dealt with, but it has to be Lestrade at the very least, along with his superior. He was suspicious of me at the beginning, but willing to work with me. He only really started to trust me after I solved a few of their dead-end cases for them and proved I could stay clean for more than a few weeks."

Sherlock shrugged again. "I finally got engaging work to do, if unpaid, but Lestrade was willing to put the word out and I started to get a few private clients here and there. I'm not sure why the idea had never occurred to me before, to make a career out of this. I looked at cases when I was younger, for fun, but it was more of a hobby. When it was plain that I was expected to either become a chemist or a professional musician, I was discouraged from indulging it any further. I think a part of me was convinced that I couldn't make a living out of it. I couldn't stomach the idea of returning to school again to get some sort of degree related to law enforcement, and I wouldn't make it dealing with what Lestrade has to everyday. I had to invent a niche for myself."

John thought about that. Sherlock's intensely stubborn personality ensured that a great many normal achievements in life would become extremely difficult for him. He could see how a formal education fit squarely into that category. Sherlock would never have had the patience for it. He'd probably either fly through the subject matter on his own and then have to twiddle his thumbs for the rest of the year, or he would so thoroughly alienate his classmates and professors that they'd throw him out within a week. Yes, an independent profession suited Sherlock.

John sighed softly. "Sounds like the best thing you could have done. It's too bad your family didn't see that sooner."

"They still don't. I avoid them as much as possible." The patches were having the desired soothing effect, though not as strong as Sherlock would have preferred. "I'm still considered a disappointment and a liability, and reminded of the fact every time my presence is required at a gathering. I skip as many as I'm allowed to get away with."

John's lips thinned into an angry line. So they hadn’t cut him off completely, just demanded his presence occasionally to look down at him. John didn't like the sound of that at all. "Isn't there…anyone in your family you were close to?" He had Harry, volatile as she was when she was in a mood. With all of her ups and downs, John considered her to be one close relative. Perhaps not as close as other siblings were, but they at least had something.

"Mycroft, once." Sherlock's tone placed that closeness firmly into the past tense; something had happened between them to sour that relationship. "You'd understand if you met them, John. I'm well aware that I make people uncomfortable and misread some social cues, but they're worse." In so many ways.

Sherlock looked so…still. Like he always did, actually. But these details brought up in John's mind imaginings of a very unhappy life. A strange protectiveness came over him then. He knew it could never be as simple as this for Sherlock, but his first reaction was to throw a great big "fuck you" in their faces. All of them. Sherlock was damned amazing. Brilliant. Driven. _Impossible,_ yes. John couldn't sugarcoat that. But a disappointment? No.

"Well." John raised his eyebrows and forced away the anger. Instead he called a vehemently cordial air about his voice, the most posh he could manage, enunciating each syllable. " _Screw them_."

Sherlock actually smirked at that, an angry light John had never seen before sparking in his eyes. "My sentiments exactly, although perhaps not literally. I refuse to toe the line, no matter how much my brother asks, and I won't take their money. Which makes it very fortunate that I found a suitable flatmate. I doubt I could afford it otherwise."

He didn't mention that having another person living with him was part of the deal he'd had to agree to. John didn't need to know about his previous attempts to find a flatmate he could endure and, at the same time, could manage to endure him.

"Then it's settled. You can keep on having Christmases and other social functions with Mrs. Hudson and I, and the rest of your family can go on sitting alone and cold in their big houses and _rot_." John gave a sharp nod for good measure. "They don't know what they're missing. Like John Watson's famous cuppa tea. And I think you could use one." The corners of his lips edged upward as John straightened in his chair.

"If you're offering," Sherlock replied. A hint of his smirk remained, but that flicker of intense emotion had disappeared behind that wall of clinical detachment. He didn't dare show his relief that John hadn't looked at him in pity or disdain. Sherlock didn't think he'd have been able to handle those familiar expressions painted on his friend's face.

...and John _was_ a friend. When had that happened?

A full smile spread across John's mouth. "I could use one too," he said as he got up and went to the kitchen. He yawned when he came back out to stand at the doorway, waiting on the tea. It was getting dark, but their conversation had been welcome. Unfortunately John didn't feel like they made any headway around the case, but…at least he'd got to enjoy Sherlock sharing something with him.

The conversation had passed some time, but Sherlock still had a while to wait before he could pursue the plan he had sketched out in his head. He glanced sideways, watching John lean against the kitchen door frame. "Why did you become an army doctor?" He shook his head as he watched John's expression change. "No, I can read it, but that's not the point. I'd... prefer to hear you tell it."

John raised an eyebrow. It was a bit strange, being offered to tell someone something personal about oneself when that person already knew. He wondered if what he had to say would match up. If it didn't, what would Sherlock think of that. It made him feel self-conscious suddenly.

"I, uhm." John tried to soften the tightness in his mouth. He dropped his gaze to the table. "I suppose I needed a change. When you first met me, you figured out how I wasn't really close with my family, except Harry. And yeah, you figured out that one pretty much on the spot." He inhaled, trying to find the right track to his own story. He hadn't thought about it as a cohesive timeline very often. "I went to school at Bart's. Being a doctor, you know…it wasn't really a passion for me, not like art or music are for other people, but it…" he laughed. "It was the thing I'd always play at being when we were kids. Harry'd make me play "house" and I'd be the father who went off to work as a doctor. I don't know how that made sense later in life, but I needed to go to college for something, and…there it was. I had a bit of a tryst with the theater at the time, you know. I was young, I couldn't imagine myself going in to work every day 9 to 5 with a boring job, but practicality won out. I worked at a few hospitals. Had a doctor girlfriend, too." John laughed, but it was soft. Bittersweet. "She was even more of an idealist than I was, I think. She would go on and on about…well, about the work we could be doing, and all that was going on in the world, and I was just…just tired of work I guess. It wasn't fun for me, anymore."

He paused, knowing the next part would be more personal. "And then 9-11 happened. She wanted to go to New York, to help out. Just like always. Very driven. And I dawdled too long. I wanted to help, and I wanted to be as inspired as she was, but I just wasn't. And she could see it. So she left." Behind him the tea announced it was ready, but John continued on. "I was depressed for three years, living for the weekends in which I would do nothing, and then the war started. So I joined up." He gave a self-deprecating smile. "Thought I'd maybe do something important with my life."

Sherlock leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he so often did while thinking. It had been much as he'd thought, although there were new outlines appearing on the edges of the mental picture John Watson had made in his mind. There were some things that couldn't be read at a glance - you had to push the right buttons and watch the response, reading the story written between the lines.

"Do you feel like you're inspired now?" Sherlock asked, several other questions hidden underneath what was spoken. Even if John wasn't inspired, he was addicted - even if it was to as mundane a substance as adrenaline.

John's eyes remained on the table, but his smile became a real one. He took a moment to really think about Sherlock's question, even though he felt he already knew the answer.

"Yes." He'd found what she'd been looking for in him. It was too late to go back to show it to her. There was too much water under that fallen bridge now. But he knew, deep down, that he'd found that solid part of himself that she'd only wished he'd had.

"What are you inspired by?" Something about heroics and justice, probably. John was quite emotionally sensitive, and it was likely his enlistment wasn't just fueled by a desire to escape and build something about himself that he could take pride in. No matter how he felt about the medical profession as a whole, John enjoyed helping people.

John's eyes swiveled to Sherlock for a moment. He paused, just looking at the calculating detective, eyes so intense, dark brows like arrows drawn over the angles of his face…

"Tea," John said abruptly and turned around back into the kitchen. "Yes. Tea's done."

The answer had been there for a moment, a wisp of a shadow that vanished as soon as he looked. Sherlock sighed and listened to the quiet sounds of liquid being poured.

While John's presence was unusually soothing in many respects, more than Sherlock had ever expected companionship to ever be, he was also unbelievably frustrating. As expressive as his flatmate was, Sherlock found himself frequently doubting that he was reading John correctly. He didn't like the uncertainty, but it was mortifying to even consider asking for confirmation.

John returned a few minutes later with two cups. With a practiced motion, he set one on the coffee table at Sherlock's feet, and sat down with his own. He continued watching Sherlock over the top of his cup when he could. Eventually he did turn on the telly to see the latest news, and the question was left unanswered between them.

Sherlock drank his tea in silence, observing John whenever his flatmate wasn't watching. He set his empty cup on the table once John turned on the telly and rose. John didn't comment as he stalked off to his room and shut the door.

Safely ensconced inside familiar territory, Sherlock finally let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He felt unusually frustrated, more than was merited by the case and the wait that was still ahead of him. Glancing at the floorboard that hid his now-empty box, Sherlock flopped over onto his bed and dug his cell out of his pocket, checking for new messages.

It buzzed right in his hand.

_So you think you've found me, have you? It's too bad… You still have to earn your place beside me, dear. No freebies. - M_

Sound of footfalls came from the other room, but then the faucet turned on, and a moment later John's shuffling steps retreated back to the sitting room. Sounds from the telly remained. 

_I think I'll surprise you yet. I'm not expecting freebies. There's no fun in that. -SH_

Sherlock huffed out a breath in frustration, turning onto his side and navigating his phone's menu until he found the alarm. If this had been the old days, he would have just sped up time with an injection, but that wasn't an option. Neither was venting his emotions through music; John would pick up on the tone and would worry, which would only make it that much more difficult to sneak away.

Sherlock willed himself to relax and, not seeing many other options to pass the time, tried to lose himself in fantasy.

It wasn't until hours later that John turned off the telly, did his nightly routine in the bathroom, and then trudged up the stairs. The fourth one from the bottom always creaked. He could be heard straightening up, his steps walking back and forth, changing, the unusual shift of one step and then another, and then the creak of his bedsprings as he laid down.

Sherlock waited a long time in the silence, listening for any signs that John was lying awake in bed. When no further creaks came from the upstairs bedroom he stood and quietly exited his room. He shrugged on his coat and crept out of the flat, turning his collar up against the nighttime chill of the street. His now-lost knives were missed beside the lockpicks in his pocket, but there was nothing to be done about that now. Besides, it wasn't like he was defenseless without a weapon.

It was a bit more difficult to find a cab this late, but persistence finally paid off. Sherlock clenched his hands in impatience the entire ride there, overpaying the cabbie in his hurry to get to his destination. From there it was easy to slip into old habits, noting the positions of the security cameras and slipping into the blind spots, jumping between pools of shadow until he reached the side door.

The studio was completely deserted, dark and silent in the way that only large, empty spaces could be. Sherlock found his way to the editing room by memory, picking the lock and kneeling next to the computer from earlier. It took mere moments for him to replace the RAM and boot the computer up, typing in the password he'd gained from the Yard's analysis program.

His search of the system's files and programs yielded almost no results. Everything was exactly what one would expect in a film editing room, with one exception: a program file labeled cryptotp.exe was hidden away in one of the system folders. The computer records showed that it had last been run shortly before he and John had been contacted by Richard. Attempting to run the program only brought up a window with a space to select a media file and a text entry box.

Sherlock dug around in the room until he located a flash drive, emptying it of its contents and ripping a copy of the suspicious program for himself. He shut down the system and retraced his footsteps out of the building. It was time to pay Moriarty a visit.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains an explicit underage scene. For those who wish to avoid it, check the notes at the bottom for details.

Less than ten blocks from the studio Rich and his young charge Jake drove along the city streets, having just picked up a fast food dinner. As usual, they'd been two of the last to leave, but the rest of the day had been particularly unusual for the both of them. Rich had been distracted, and there had been no question why. The adults all acted like they understood; Rich had things he needed to do now - like organizing contracts and talking with their producers. Sherlock was all the crew talked about for the rest of the day. Rich, by contrast, had a more subdued distraction. It was internal, but just as palpable.

Jake had had trouble dealing with the flurry of excitement that had filled the rest of the day after The Great Sherlock Holmes and his assistant left the studio. It wasn't that he was being purposefully ignored, exactly, but something had happened after the detective had stepped onto the stage and given them a show. He felt like he'd been judged and dismissed, and the feeling had only increased when the rest of the adults had spent the time afterwards discussing business and the celebrity visit instead of... what usually happened. The usual banter and teasing just hadn't been there, and even Cody and Austin had noticed.

"You've been quiet today," Rich broke the silence. His tone was imploring, and now that they were alone he seemed to have come back to himself, the usual Rich. Somewhat. The usual Rich that Jake saw anyway, the one who cursed, who wasn't afraid to keep things from him, and who was always, absolutely, focused on him. 

"Yeah," Jake admitted softly, giving Rich a worried glance before turning to look out the window. He couldn't say exactly why, but he was afraid of what he might see. "I guess I just feel... dunno. Ignored, I guess. I mean, I know everyone's all excited, fer good reason, but I just... He wasn't mean to me or anythin', but I feel a bit invisible right now. Everyone's lookin' at the big celebrity and forgott'n I even exist."

Rich's head lolled back between the headrest and his shoulder, eyes focused on Jake as he drove.

"You know that's all going to change, don't you? We haven't even begun yet. Once we have, they'll see you, not just him. You know an actor makes a character." The side of Rich's mouth quirked up. "Whether you realize it or not, you've got him down pretty well at your age." 

Silence. Rich didn’t break his gaze away from the boy.

"And, if you don't look at me…I'm going to keep driving like this."

A pout settled onto Jake's mouth but he did turn, a sad wariness still clouding his light eyes. "I know, I know. It's still early, nothin's happened yet. Jus', after that whole stage bit..." The boy gestured and pulled a face, trying to find the right words. "It's like... even if I try my hardest, after they've met the real thing, I'm just never gonna measure up, y'know? It's not like I'm up against a character in someone's _'ead_. You can mess with characters 'cause nobody has somethin' hard to compare to. He just made me feel like a dumb kid."

Jake sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair, leaving the curls more disheveled than ever. "I know, I'm overthinkin' it. The kids who'll watch it won't know and won't care, but I kinda do."

"Hmm." Rich pursed his lips together and nodded, turning back to the road before he drove them into the kerb. He needed to do something about this.

They drove past their usual turn to Jake's house and kept going until they reached a park. It was closed for the night, but that meant little to Rich. All he needed was an open space with few pedestrians. The tinted windows would keep onlookers from noticing a man and a boy sitting alone in a dark car. He leaned back in his seat when they were parked, giving Jake his full attention once again. "I don't want you to compare yourself to where he is now." Rich’s eyes didn't blink when they looked at Jake. "You have to realize…Sherlock is talented, yes, he's made a celebrity of himself, but he is…." Rich cocked his head, suddenly looking like two people at once. His expression was… off. "…damaged in many ways. Most of which he's done to himself over the years." And then Jake had his attention again, to a very intense degree. "He was like you once. And right now you've got something he doesn't."

Jake swallowed, nerves and lust battling for dominance within him. He'd seen that odd expression a few times before, where something dark and intense bled into the man he knew and peered out from behind Rich’s eyes. Jake could never quite tell whether it made him want to run or draw closer. "Yeah? What've I got that he doesn't?"

Rich's lips curled back from his teeth in a smile. He knew exactly where he had Jake, and he made that clear in the look he shot the boy.. He leaned forward across the space between them, planting a hand on the passenger door rest for support as he hovered over Jake. "Your zest for life…" he began as he found whatever confirmation he'd been looking for in Jake's eyes and trailed his lips over the boy's jaw as he spoke, "your youth…" then down his small neck, "your ambition…" and placed a kiss at the juncture of Jake's clavicle. "Sherlock's let himself stay bored for so long. He's gotten old, he's _become_ boring." He looked up, bringing their noses an inch apart. "Maybe together we can snap him out of it."

Jake's eyes had rapidly darkened with the attention, pupils blown wide and lips parted slightly as his pulse sped up underneath Rich's mouth. God, trust Rich to make him feel better by looking at him so intensely that he felt burnt. A breathy laugh escaped him. "Y'really think he's boring compared t'me?" If it'd been anyone else, he would've sworn they were just taking the piss, but Rich had always been honest with him.

Rich's smile quirked, but his eyes remained focused. "You Jake…you have given me something I thought I would never, ever have." It was a strange truth. Rich brought his other hand up to the side of Jake's face, trailing up one cheekbone, over a soft temple, and folding through his hair. For a moment, he wasn't Richard Brook anymore, but his expression stayed open. Staring back at him, a Sherlock of years past looked through Jake's gaze. "Yes. Right now, you are the most interesting thing in the world."

Jake's happiness spilled over at those words, the warmth burning away the last hints of insecurity as he smiled at Rich. Rich had that look again, but Jake didn't care. He stared back into eyes so dark they were almost black, shyly reaching up to touch Richard's hair. He still worried from time to time that Rich would pull back when he was the one to initiate things, though that fear was fading slowly with time. When he didn't see any signs of rejection Jake sighed and leaned forward, catching Rich's mouth in a kiss.

Rich smiled through the first bit of it, then let it deepen. He shifted and was careful not to push his full weight into Jake as he pressed closer, still laying half in one seat and half in the other. His hand tangled in dark curls as he pulled the boy's head back to expose his neck again. With red lips parted, eyes fluttering shut and a light stain of color over his pale cheeks, Jake was beautiful. The only thing left for Rich to long for were the obsessive ramblings about missing shoes, inconsistencies of swimming patterns, and the few signs left behind in a locker room that could have led to foul play pouring from similar lips. Not so deep down inside him, Jim made up for the difference, imagining Sherlock's words narrating the sensations his small body was feeling in detail.

One of his hands found its way under Jake's shirt, rucking it up and massaging the dips in his skin before ghosting over his trousers. 

A shudder ran through the boy, a grin curling the corners of his mouth as he watched Rich through half-lidded eyes. Jake loved the way Rich made him feel so _wanted_ , like he was the only thing in the world that existed at that moment. Another flutter of light pressure and Jake moaned, turning his head slightly so he could kiss Rich's wrist.

"We don't have very long. It's late enough that mum might start askin' questions if I'm too much longer." Jake bit his lower lip, hoping Rich wouldn't take that as a _no_. They just couldn't stretch things out as long as they might like.

Rich's lips spread wide, knowing Jake felt safe enough to see the predatory grin. "We'll just have to be quick about it then."

He shifted his hips so that he really was lying on his side, spread over Jake's lap with his torso and with his legs folded into the driver's seat. He was level with the boy in this position, lower even when he bent his head. He shifted the material of Jake's trousers, pulling it down over his hips while they kissed again. He didn't need much room until the flesh he was after was exposed. He licked his fingers for lubricant, knowing it would feel better against the soft skin, and rubbed his hand between Jake's legs over the small hardness there.

Jake's breath hitched, one hand burying itself in Rich's hair while the other wrapped around his shoulder and held him close. "... _fuck_." No matter how many times they did this, he just couldn't get over how _amazing_ it all felt. It had taken a lot of convincing for him to stop feeling self-conscious about the whole thing. Rich didn't mind that there were things he couldn't do yet, didn't mind that he was still so small. He'd learned to stop worrying and just enjoy, trusting that Rich would let him know if he was upset.

He shifted his hips uncomfortably. "Um..." Rich's gaze turned up and pinned him in place, and Jake suddenly could feel his cheeks coloring with embarrassment. "Could I, uh... Y'know, wh-what... we tried last time?" He swallowed. "...with the finger?" He'd enjoyed it more than he'd thought he would.

"Glad to see you liked that so much." Rich was already reaching behind himself to get at the glove compartment. He took out a small bottle of gel lubricant, shifted his weight, and poured it over his fingers. He scissored them so that the liquid ran between each in a tendril, smiling behind it. Then he leaned in and kissed Jake's stomach while he ran the slicked fingers around the hardness of his erection and lower. He had to push the boy's trousers down farther, but with Jake's wiggling hips they managed until he found the crease of soft skin in between. He pressed between it and rubbed one finger over the ring of muscle while his thumb rubbed the sensitive area just beneath his balls. Dark eyes flicked upward to see Jake watching with anticipation, enjoying the small sensations Rich was giving him. With their gazes locked together, Rich sank his finger slowly through the barrier of muscle.

Jake clenched his jaw and hissed through his teeth, trying to make himself relax. This was still new to him, and his body hadn't quite gotten used to the fact that such an invasion could be a _good_ thing. "I'm fine, it's good," he whispered, blushing again when he heard himself. That had turned out shakier than he'd wanted it to. Jake shut his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, just letting himself adjust to the stretching sensation and pressure. Rich's finger slid a little deeper and he couldn't help but moan, his hand tightening its hold on the other man's dark hair.

Rich placed kisses over Jake's quivering stomach. He knew the sensation was weird, invasive, but he was also very aware that the boy's anatomy could compensate. He paused and just moved it back and forth. He leaned up and whispered into Jake's ear, "Shh, give yourself a minute." When he slipped in deeper, he curled his finger, searched up and down, and pressed into the sensitive spot he was looking for. He breathed against Jake's neck, his free arm curled beneath the boy's back, and enjoyed the small sounds he made.

Oh god, that spot. Jake shivered as a gentle pressure circled a place he hadn't even known existed a few weeks before and the whole world contracted in a sudden warmth. Rich's mouth was close, so close, and he tilted his head in invitation. The other man seemed to like that sort of vulnerability.

Jake opened his eyes and nearly lost it just from the _look_ Rich was giving him. He licked his lips and released his hold on the older man's hair, letting his hand drift lower until he was able to sneak a finger under Rich's waistband, an unspoken question in his gaze.

Rich's lips parted as he shifted his hips forward to make up for Jake's reach. He couldn't move either of his hands to free himself for the boy, so he pressed his mouth to Jake's ear. "Help me out here?" he asked with a small wiggle of his own hips. His trousers would be a bit more difficult to get into, but Jake's hands were small and the boy had proven on one occasion before that he could easily slip his hand right under the fabric. Knowing it would only hinder Jake for the moment, he eased up on the pressure of his finger inside the boy.

Jake grinned and got to work. It was always more difficult to unbutton trousers once they were stretched tight, but it didn't take him too terribly long to get Rich unfastened and unzipped. He ran his fingers over the tented fabric, pleasure washing through him at the small noise Rich made in response. It was so silly, looking back, how intimidated he'd felt the first time he'd seen Rich's full length up close. Jake squeezed him through the cloth, just to be a tease, then tucked his fingers under the waistband of his pants and pulled them down.

Rich moaned high in the back of his throat and gave Jake a rewarding stroke. He shifted his hips back and forth to help ease his trousers down. He watched as the small hand wrapped around his erection and shuddered. The clever way Jake's eyes narrowed, focused on his task with a coy determination made heat pool low in his stomach and his cock twitch in the boy's hand.

Smug confidence was a good look on Jake. His eyes turned cat-like and the similarities to his older doppelganger were more pronounced. Rich was already fully hard and _Jim_ wasn't going to last long thinking about Sherlock and being so pent up after the excitement prior in the day.

Jake smirked and shifted positions until he could get closer. He leaned in and licked at the bead of precum at the end of Rich's dick, then opened his mouth to suck on the head. He couldn't manage much more than that, but Rich had taught him a trick to make up for it, using his hand to give the feeling that he was swallowing more than he truly was. He wished he could see Rich's face from that angle, but the sounds that reached his ears told him he was doing well. That, and the fact that he began to be stroked again in earnest. Jake whimpered, the noise sinking right into Rich's flesh.

Suddenly they had a feedback loop. Rich dropped his head and just breathed for a moment, open mouthed as the extraordinary sensation washed over him. Even Jim, in the back of his mind, was silent. It didn't matter that the boy was inexperienced. In fact, it made it even better. Watching Jake was almost as good as feeling Jake.

When Rich began feeling himself coming close he dipped his own head and wrapped his lips around the boy's erection to match pace with the stroke of his finger. Jake was surprisingly responsive to the pace Rich set, never losing the rhythm as the strokes deepened and sped up.

The boy didn't last very long with so much stimulation. Rich quickly sent him over the edge. He couldn't help but writhe under the intensity, his moan slightly muffled as he continued to suck. He'd started to learn how to feel when Rich was getting close, and it looked like he wouldn't be far behind.

Rich sat up, resting his weight on his elbow, the muscles in his stomach clenching with each bob of the boy's head. He wiped his hand free of the lube quickly and then stroked his fingers through Jake's hair. Sweat pooled at the boy's temples and Rich caught it with the pad of his thumb. His body shuddered with pleasure just watching the boy with his lips wrapped firmly around Richard's cock, visible against his hollowed cheeks and his hands making up for the rest. 

Rich came gasping, his back arching, fingers curling in Jake's hair. A memory from earlier that day passed through his mind. Jake and Sherlock had shared one of the stage spotlights for the briefest moment, the two of them bathed in the same light like the span of two decades had overlapped in time and space. When Rich laid back, he held that image in his mind, just behind his eyelids.

Jake choked a little at the suddenness, swallowing as best he could. A small dribble escaped his lips anyway, leaving a sticky rivulet at the corner of his mouth. Jake released him and looked up, drinking in the sight of his mentor, slumped against the car door and panting slightly. He looked unraveled. Jake was a little awed that he could make someone look like that.

The boy reached up and shyly traced a finger along the line of Rich's parted lips. "Are you ok?"

They parted in a smile. "I don't know…you might have to drive us home." With a quick flick. Rich swiped his tongue over the digit and caused the boy to laugh at the tickle. Rich reached down and pulled his trousers back together. Mimicking Jake's motion, he leaned forward and caught the bit of liquid at the side of the boy's mouth with his thumb, then gave him a chaste kiss. "Time to get you back."

Jake beamed at him, glowing with pleasure, the day's troubles entirely forgotten. "Yeah, I guess so. Mum's gonna give me hell otherwise."

The boy sat up straighter and got his seatbelt back on, checking himself over to make sure he wasn't too rumpled or, worse, stained. Just because his mum was tired and busy didn't mean she was completely daft.

They pulled out of the park at high speed. Rich nearly spun around the corners of every street to make Jake feel it and force him to hold on. They were laughing with high spirits by the time he turned the last corner and suddenly slowed to a crawl before they could reach his mother's house. They inched along down the street, like Rich didn't want to get there so soon, then finally, _finally_ , edged into a full stop in front of the house. The lights were on inside, waiting for Jake's arrival. 

"Alright," Rich unlocked the doors so the boy could get out. "Remember, take a shower when you get in or you'll smell like sex all night."

"Yeah, I remember," Jake intoned, rolling his eyes and grinning. He understood the need to be careful, but at the same time Jake was pretty confident that they wouldn't get caught. Adults were pretty unobservant.

"Seeya tomorrow." He wanted another quick kiss, but... Rich had always warned him about that. Too close to home wasn't safe. He bit his lower lip instead, giving Rich one last fond look before he stepped out of the car. The boy dug in his trouser pocket as he walked to the front door, finding his set of keys and letting himself in.

Rich stayed just long enough to make sure Jake opened the door and then he was off down the street, taillights fading into the distance.

He checked his phone, and yes, there it was. It had received a ping from Richard's flat. There was movement inside. He'd felt it vibrate somewhere between consoling Jake and pushing the boy's pants down.

The security notice could only mean one thing, and the facade of Richard, idealistic lover of boys, slipped off his face as Jim Moriarty thought about Sherlock rummaging around in the flat of his sock puppet. He stepped on the accelerator as excitement bubbled up inside him.

After a long day of work, he was finally heading home.

* * *

The locks to Richard Brook's apartment had been trivial. It was apparent as soon as Sherlock was inside that this wasn't Moriarty's real place of residence - it was a model of a home, not a home in itself. The small scuffs and marks that inevitably occurred with real usage of a space were missing, the food containers all too full, a very thin layer of dust coating a number of places.

Sherlock smiled when he noticed the tiny laser eye near the doorway. His presence had been noted, so he might as well make good use of the time he had. The detective filled the kitchen kettle and put it on to boil, then set off to explore the few rooms in the flat.

Not too long after he'd begun his investigations, easy footsteps could be heard coming down the hallway. They were preceded only by a softly whistled tune and the sporadic humming of a familiar voice. They shuffled back and forth for a moment, indicative of a dance.

The jandle of a keychain sounded, spinning in someone’s hand before unlocking the door and throwing it open. And there was Richard Brook, standing in the threshold.

Sherlock was just returning to the kitchen, glancing at the man in the doorway as he walked. "Oh, good. I was wondering how long I'd have to wait. Tea?" he asked, reaching into the cupboards for the teabags and a couple of mugs.

It was painfully obvious what Moriarty had just returned from. Even the most unobservant person would be able to note a reddened mouth, rumpled clothing, and the musky scent that clung to the skin after one had had a session of indulging their hormonal impulses. Sherlock's nose wrinkled and he tried to concentrate on the sharp contrast of the tea leaves.

"Oh, Sherlock…" Rich crooned, sounding very unlike the self-conscious actor. "Breaking and entering? You shouldn't have." His hands slid down the sides of the doorframe and he stepped inside, closing it behind him. "But the tea I'll accept," he added with a crooked smile as he moved books off a pair of Richard's chairs to make a comfortable place for them to sit, then plopped into one. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You've visited me unannounced many times before. I thought I'd return the favor. Not that this quite counts, as you don't actually live here, but it will have to do for the moment." Sherlock poured the water and leaned against the counter, watching the other man as he waited for the tea to steep.

"Large social gatherings are awkward, too many listeners for us to speak frankly. I do enjoy texting, but some conversations are better held in person. You've gone to a great deal of trouble to procure my attention, and now you have it. I'm listening."

A strange cackle burst from Rich's lips. His sharp brows rose and his arms spread out, palms up in a picture of openness. "Dear, dear me. I think you must have me confused with someone else." The toothy smile and sharp eyes said otherwise. "I'm just little Richard Brook, small time actor trying to make a name for myself in the big, bad world." Then he looked thoughtful. "But I would imagine whoever you're looking for would be…quite flattered at the initiative you've taken."

Sherlock removed and disposed of the teabags, carrying the mugs over to the living room and handing one to Rich before settling in the chair opposite him. "It doesn't matter to me if that's what you want to claim for the moment. We both know, but this is your opportunity to speak frankly. If you keep me too entertained with cases, I may find it difficult to save up enough time for a second visit."

Sherlock took a sip from his cup, the thoughtful expression sliding into something darker, more angry. "A little young for a surrogate. Unless that's specifically what you're looking for."

Rich sipped his tea, hiding a fearsome smile behind his cup at the mention of Jake. "You're too impatient, Sherlock. Although I do like that about you. Always ready for action, yet you don't make it yourself. Curious, that." He held the cup between his hands in his lap. "Anyway. The boy has his purpose. He's a bit of a storyteller at heart you see, most actors are…and I have a _very_ special story for you."

Rich paused, as though just remembering. "Say. Didn't I hear on the news that one of your closest comrades has just become one of the dearly departed? Aren't you just heartbroken?"

"I don't have comrades. I have people I interact with while doing Work, so... no. I can't say that I'm bothered." It was the truth; he felt a measure of curiosity about it, but that was the extent of his feelings on the matter. That, and the internal acknowledgement that a normal person would probably feel remorse or, at the very least, feel remorseful that they felt no remorse.

"You think it curious that I don't make my own diversions. I find it odd that you try to. It's like playing chess with yourself - it passes the time for a little while, but it's boring and ultimately unsatisfying. Don't tell me ordinary people pose a challenge. They don't." Sherlock took another sip of tea, watching Rich over the rim of the mug. "That's what this is about, isn't it? You think you've found someone else to play with. Someone on the same level."

Rich gave a sheepish smile and sipped his own tea. "Isn't that what any of us lonely hearts are searching for? Just someone to give us a _challenge?_ " After another sip, he set his cup neatly on the end table between them and folded his hands together. Rich sat still, assessing Sherlock with his sharp gaze. Behind the black stare the cogs of his mind churned. "You're gifted, you are…. but I'm still not convinced you have what it takes."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, internally bristling at the suggestion that he _wasn't good enough_ , was merely _slightly above_ ordinary. "Why such doubts? Or is it simply that you wish to put me through a crucible of tests before you're satisfied?"

"Oh honey, can you really blame me?" Rich pouted. "You should know better than to trust something that seems too good to be true. Why not consider this a learning experience for the both of us? Getting to know one another, if you will? Because you don't strike me as the type to get down and dirty after the first 'hello'." His face was a waterfall of expressions, moving like liquid from innocent to coquettishly smug.

Sherlock's expression didn't waver; he had no idea what Rich was referring to, other than... "I seem to recall you made such a request before you even deigned to give me your name. I don't see how encouraging participation in the second round is marginally more appropriate than in the first." He'd already gotten his hands dirty within a matter of days, so why the uncertainty now?

Rich blinked once then slid his mouth into a slow grin. "Different kind of 'dirty', dear." He winked, and continued. "Besides, I never said _I_ wasn't the type. But, call me old fashioned, I need a little more than a quick romp in the petroleum distillates to know you really care." He looked at Sherlock shrewdly, half cocking his head. "You certainly sound like you're interested."

A slight frown had creased Sherlock's forehead when Rich indicated that he'd misinterpreted his meaning. Rich couldn't mean physical dirt, which meant... oh.

The detective sat very still, face impassive, doing his damned best not to show a hint of unease. "I'm curious about most things at least once," he ventured cautiously. He'd entertained the notion a few times in his lifetime, but there was a vast difference between considering scenarios and actually attempting them.

Rich's head straightened to focus on Sherlock directly. A flick of his tongue licked the corner of his upper lip and his eyes narrowed into sharp points. "Glad I am to hear that, _but_ ," and he dragged the word out in a sing-song tone, "that doesn't mean you don’t have to work for it. And I do mean work. I want to see you, Sherlock. I want to see you at the height of who you can be."

Sherlock's gaze hardened, the lines of his mouth sharpened from irritation. "That's all well and good, but I don't exist to please you. If you want to get me to do something, I need motivation. And no, not taunts and threats," he said, his lip curling slightly. "You've stated what you want, rather vaguely, but not what you're offering. Indulgence in a curiosity, yes, and someone to play the Game with, but I've functioned well enough without either of those. What are you willing to give, and what are you hoping to gain?"

"Have you? Have you _really_?" Richard's brows rose, suddenly honest. "You're functioning _better_ , that's for sure. But what will you do when you run out of 'interesting' cases, hm? They come so few and so far between. Not counting the two latest, how many do you think have come, in one way or another, connected to dear little old me? And how many have been just…dumb…luck?" He sucked in a breath between his teeth, as if frightened, then dropped in favor of flat stoicism. "No, Sherlock. You need to get to know me a little better to hear my offer. That can only take time. And maybe a little pain. But you know what they say, the good things in life don't come cheap."

"I'm willing to listen. If I wasn't, we wouldn't be having this conversation." As it was, he should end it right now, curiosity or no. As interesting as the man had been thus far, this was only going to escalate. Sherlock just couldn't... bring himself to end the diversion so soon.

_Better_ , he'd said. Sherlock couldn't recall ever meeting Richard during his chemical-soaked days, but it wasn't a complete impossibility. "Give my watch back."

"You'll get it back." Richard looked like he was telling the truth. It was impossible to be certain, but his eyes and tone held no indication of falsity. "You're so impatient," he laughed, then smiled with eyes warm as coals. "I am truly happy you came to see me though. Really, I am." Then, a thoughtful expression came over him. "I suppose…I can at least make a concession for your watch, can't I? Give you something in return?"

He rose from his chair and sifted through a shoebox beside it. Its contents were that of a child's chemistry set. "Aha!" He surfaced with a pair of glass slides. With a little smile he stepped toward Sherlock, getting in his personal space and then closer still. He brought one knee up and then the other to plant them between each of Sherlock's legs and the arms of the chair until he was essentially straddling the detective's lap. 

Sherlock's gaze flickered between Rich's face and the offered slides, the gears in his head turning as he tried to deduce what their significance was. He wasn't the slightest bit concerned about the invasion of space. He was confident that he could incapacitate the other man if it was necessary.

"How are these irreplaceable?" Sherlock finally asked, tilting his head up until he could stare into the dark eyes watching him. This close, Richard's gaze was distracting; when he dropped the facade, the expression was eerily familiar.

"Ah, ah, ah…" Richard waved a finger chidingly. He shifted to dig in his pocket for his keys, the awkward position hampering him slightly. When he managed to pull them free, he selected a small utility tool from the keychain and flicked it open. He held one slide between them and pricked his forefinger with the tip of the knife blade.

As Rich moved, he watched Sherlock watching him back before his gaze dropped to the pinpoint of red surfacing in the center of his finger. Carefully, he placed the digit above the slide and let one droplet fall. The second slide was placed over the first and sealed the liquid between them. The small bit of blood that was left was licked away. "The name's Jim, by the way. Jim Moriarty." He smiled and set the slide in Sherlock's palm. "And you may take this token of my appreciation and do what you will with it. I would keep it safe if I were you. That's gold you have in your hand."

Sherlock watched the proceedings in silence, weighing his options as the biological memento was left in his hand. His fingers curled around the slide, but he only had eyes for Rich... or Jim, if he was to be believed. "I still expect my watch back, unharmed. If you insist on holding onto it for the moment, I'll do the same with this." Paranoia still swept through him, whispers of _what if_ filling his mind as he thought up several scenarios where his father's watch was destroyed or lost... but it would have to do. Pushing the matter right now might only ensure that it stayed out of his grasp permanently.

Sherlock finally placed the other man's expression; it was the same predatory look he'd seen at family gatherings, sharp minds and dangerous personalities circling one another like sharks on the edge of frenzy.

Jim's eyes softened around the edges, yet the fine lines there became strangely more pronounced. As if it was an unnatural state of expression. "An honorable trade." He smiled wickedly. He looked down like he was considering the way he was sitting in Sherlock's lap then, slowly, moved off the detective. He stretched his thin frame in front of Sherlock, arms over his head, ribs visible beneath the t-shirt he wore, but when he relaxed he was all Rich again.

"I hope this little rendezvous hasn't put you off from our big debut of the great detective on screen." Rich's toothy grin was all cheese.

"Not at all. This just makes things more interesting." Sherlock paused, scanning Jim for any remaining hints of what lay beneath - the core was so much more intriguing than this mask. Disappointment flashed through his eyes. "If I was put off, make no mistake: you'd know it."

Even as Rich, Jim was far more blatant in his interest than John was, a fact that left Sherlock distinctly uncomfortable and uncertain of what to do. John was a pleasant man who kept a safe distance and seemed too polite to ever confront him with his emotions; in other words, he was safe and relatively predictable. Sherlock harbored no such illusions about Moriarty.

Sherlock forced himself to sit still and willed his hands to unclench.

"My, you look like someone's given you a fright," Rich said a little too sympathetically, like he didn't understand. He kneeled down and rested his chin over crossed arms on the arm of Sherlock's chair. "You know, I kind of like having you over for a chat and a spot of tea. We should really do this more often. Do you have a favorite game of cards?"

Sherlock's eyes followed him as Rich crouched and tried to make himself appear less threatening.

"Not really." Other than a few classic games, cards had been considered too low-class during his youth. The competitive streak running through the family had made entering into a game of poker a terrifying endeavor. "I was more one for tricks than games. I've played chess more often than cards."

"Is that so?" Rich's eyes lit up and he reached up toward Sherlock's face, invading his space very suddenly again. "Because you've got a little something….Aha!" His fingers fluttered like spiders behind Sherlock's ear and from thin air he plucked a card. He held it between them like a secret. "Too bad you haven't left any chess pieces up there."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed noncommittally, setting the glass slide down in his lap and giving Rich a sly look. He couldn't help the smirk that crept up at the corner of his mouth as his gaze slid from Rich to his empty hands. "Not chess pieces, no."

One hand moved and Sherlock suddenly was playing with a small white square, rolling it across the knuckles like a coin before he caught it, displaying the object prominently between two fingers.

A mirroring curve parted Rich's lips when he recognized one of the small pieces of velcro he kept in his pocket. "I'm going to have to sit in your lap more often I think." His fingers walked playfully over the armrest, meandering closer to Sherlock and then back again. "Maybe I'll even let you tip me upside down one day and see what else falls out."

"Oh, I've already checked. I'm not certain how well gum goes with tea, but you can find out if you wish." Sherlock rubbed a thumb in slow circles over his other palm as if soothing an ache, then raised it until a keychain and tool dangled into view. Amused grey eyes met brown. "Did you want this back?" he asked, shaking the object like he was teasing a small child with a toy.

Richard's burst of irritation was masked quickly with a shifting of facial features. It came off as a twitch. He didn't like people who tried to play with him, but this wasn't "people", this was Sherlock. And they _were_ playing. He fixed Sherlock with big round eyes, but the rest of his expression held little innocence. "What do I have to do to get it?"

There was nothing Sherlock could get this man to promise. Promises would mean nothing. Asking him not to sneak into 221B anymore would be pointless.

"How about an answer?" Sherlock asked, turning the multitool over in his hands. His gaze never left Richard's face - Sherlock hadn't missed the twitch that signified some sort of button had been pressed. "We know each other from somewhere. Where did we meet? Not as who you're pretending to be now. Where did we meet originally?"

"Tsk tsk, Sherlock. You're right, we have. But you have to solve my little puzzle for the answer to that question." Rich shook his head slowly back and forth. He stuck out his bottom lip. "I'll give you a hint though…just take a good look at your little television actor and you'll see yourself then."

"That's only half an answer." Not quite enough to earn his property back. Sherlock considered what other questions Rich might give an honest answer to. "Why now? Is it the media attention, or something else?"

"Now that was aaaalllll you. You caught _my_ attention. Within the past year you have solved more cases that any single detective inspector has solved within two, and that's to say nothing of the _nature_ of those cases. You've really found your stride, haven't you?" An unusual gleam of something that might have been pride edged into Rich's sharp eyes. "I've been watching you for some time, and I have to say I like what I see."

"A professional criminal enjoying the work of someone catching his kindred. Unusual to receive praise from that corner, but I won't turn it down." Pleasure spiked through Sherlock's core and brought a tinge of color to his pale features. He made no apologies for his ego. It mattered little whether the flattery came from allies or enemies.

" _Kindred_. Oh no, no nonono…" The semblance of Richard was gone again and in his place was a man whose mouth twisted in disgust. It was strange to see while he still sat on his knees. "A _consulting_ criminal, yes, but do _not_ think that _any_ of them are _kindred_." He looked like he swallowed something foul. Then, suddenly imploring, "I really _have_ been playing with myself for too long."

Sherlock's gaze flickered over Rich's form, almond eyes widening slightly with interest. The man was novel, a living puzzle, the like of which Sherlock had never seen before. Not outside of the family's boring machinations and string-pulling within a convoluted, pointless set of rules... and he wasn't permitted to go after family. Obviously.

Sherlock moved slowly so Richard wouldn't interpret his actions as a threat, grabbing his wrist and turning the palm upward. Rich's keychain and tool were deposited gently in the center. "Chess with yourself never satisfies."

What malevolence there had been in Richard melted away, leaving him with only curious surprise. He hadn't expected Sherlock's understanding. One side of his lip twitched up. "No, not at all. How well you must know it, too."

This is what Jim had been counting on, hoping for, praying for. In one little gesture, Sherlock had confirmed, no, _cemented_ his interest in Moriarty.

"You won't have to wait long," Jim said softly.

Sherlock gave him a sharp look, trying to pry open the secrets behind those dark eyes. "I won't ask for details. That would ruin the surprise of it." Which was part of the fun, after all - _not knowing_ something for once, having to work at figuring it out instead of merely seeing everything at a glance. There was something, though. If Jim was anything like some of his family members...

"I know we're not ones for rules, but there's one I want you to follow in this."

Jim tilted his head curiously. He laid it down on his arms and watched Sherlock from beneath dark lashes. He really did look innocent then. The years melted from him in that position, the small lines beneath his eyes fading in the low light of the room. He looked utterly at peace with Sherlock sitting straight backed in his chair, gazing down at him. "And what might that be...?"

"Certain people are off-limits. I want you to leave John Hamish Watson alone. And my family members, although that's really for your own good." Angry as he was with Mycroft, he didn't really want his brother dead. He cared less about the remainder of his relatives, but that was a hornet's nest that didn't need stirring. Sherlock paused and considered.

"I'd also prefer you not touch Gregory Lestrade or my landlady. Their loss would make a number of things... more complicated than I'd care to deal with."

A coldness crept back into Jim's eyes. His expression hardened with a hint of disgust, but he didn't move. "If these people are involved with you, Sherlock, then they are involved with me. Why would you think I would agree to leave them be?"

"Because I will have no other restrictions." He'd already crossed one line that he'd known he could, but never attempted to before. He supposed it was rather poetic that Sally Donovan had been proven right by being the first example. "I'm merely asking you not to destroy a few of my belongings, some of which are capable of biting back if you tried."

Jim's head straightened, chin still resting on his hands. He looked at Sherlock with the beady eyes of a snake. Had he a forked tongue, it would have flicked out and danced between his lips. Slowly, he shook his head. "I can promise you that you will have the power to save them should they be in danger. But, no. No, no… if you really want me to leave them alone, you have only one option. _You_ will have to leave them alone first."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, blue-grey hardening into sharpened ice. "Is this your confession that you don't share your toys?" he asked harshly, all traces of humor gone. "I don't take well to attempts to control me."

"Noooooo," Jim crooned with a hint of a smile. "It's a warning: if you're going to be my playmate, you're going to have to learn to share _your_ toys." His fingers walked up the arm of the chair again like little legs, edging off it and continuing their stroll up Sherlock's forearm. His gaze found the detective's once again.

Sherlock's features didn't soften; the exchange had felt like both a personal challenge and a passing of judgment, both of which left him in an irritable mood. It made him want to dig in his heels and do the exact opposite of everything Jim might want. "I'm not the one making overtures."

The smile fell from Jim's mouth. "If you're so very worried I'm going to break your toys, then all I'm proposing is that you come over and play with mine instead."

The fingers on Sherlock's arm paused when they reached the inside of his elbow, but Jim didn't take them back. They stayed like that, connected by just one point of contact. Sherlock could be so stubborn, but Jim had known he would be. He'd been playing alone for so long, just like Jim had. Sherlock had been so lonely he'd convinced himself his playthings were just as real as he was.

"I just might." Perhaps he'd see how Jim would like it, if Jake was suddenly beyond reach. Sherlock pushed the vindictive thought aside and let his gaze drop to the fingers nestled in the crook of his arm. He wondered if Jim knew about that, too; he hadn't said how long or consistently he'd been watching him, although Sherlock was beginning to get a sense of it.

"Does that bother you?" Sherlock was being purposefully vague, wanting to see what interpretations Jim would jump to.

Jim's eyes had narrowed, observing him as though watching the thoughts streaming through his head and trying to read them. It was impossible to say whether he could or not. It was a trick they both seemed to possess when dealing with other people, but with one another…it would have to be tested further to be determined.

Jim's fingers massaged the skin through Sherlock's shirt. His gaze softened once again as he watched them move. Even through the silky fabric, they teased out the large cephalic vein beneath the skin. "Only when you allow it to hinder you."

The response was the correct one; the anger left Sherlock's eyes as the corner of his mouth lifted. "I don't allow it to hinder me anymore." He was almost to the three year mark, with nothing touching his lungs or skin but those frustrating nicotine patches that gave a taste without truly satisfying the itch.

So he'd been on Jim's radar for over two decades, if he was to take the remark about Jake at face value. And being watched with some level of detail and interest in the past couple of years.

"So I've noticed." Jim smiled and patted Sherlock's arm. He seemed to be very comfortable invading Sherlock's space. Not like John, Lestrade, Molly, or even Mycroft as things currently stood between Sherlock and his brother. No one else would nor could invade Sherlock in this way. And Jim had barely even touched the man. "You deserved a better life than that anyway."

"I thought even that was better than previous alternatives." Sherlock's mind was on the same conundrum - what was it about Jim Moriarty that he let him get this close, physically touching him while the man tried to peer underneath his skin? The nerves in his arm were beginning to tingle, unused to this much contact in a short period of time. The only other person who came close was John, and even he kept his distance.

Sherlock blinked as he calculated that the majority of his physical contact with other humans consisted of corpses or the component pieces thereof. He wondered what that said about him.

Jim scoffed. "As though those are the only alternatives in the world? To rot away in a little lab somewhere doing god knows what with a proper little degree? Or wander the streets, fashioning yourself into your own little version of a hustler to get what you want but neeeever going above the radar?" His head rolled to the other side, fingers still stroking along Sherlock's arm. They were almost moving on their own now. "You're doing quite well for yourself now. But…the limits must bother you still. Being Lestrade's little hound dog. The papers getting _all_ the details wrong in your latest bust. Barely even having the cash for a decent cab? Ouch."

Jim hadn't mentioned the other options - interesting. Sherlock wasn't going to enlighten him. "Money isn't important to me. I wouldn't have made the choices I did if it were." He glanced down, distracted by Jim's fingers tracing their way up and down his arm. The contact was beginning to make him twitchy. "I don't work for Lestrade out of some allegiance to justice. He opens doors to amusing places, and my work is repayment for the diversions." Diversions and, lately, increasing amounts of praise.

"Doesn't it get repetitive? Sure, you'll stumble upon an interesting scene once in a while, but isn't it always the same old thing? Murder by drugs, money, fit of passion, jealousy?" he counted the list off with his fingers, pressing each into Sherlock's arm. "You don't have any say over where you'll go, what you'll find, or _how interesting_ it will be."

"I turn down the uninteresting jobs. There's a bit of overlap, but people occasionally are creative by sheer accident. Sometimes the actual crime isn't even the fascinating part, but what happened in their minds while they did it." Human reactions were intriguing when watched from the outside.

Speaking of. "I can tell that you're fond of it, but I insist on taking my arm with me when I leave."

Jim's eyelashes fluttered coyly at Sherlock. "You don't really need _two_ arms, do you?"

Now that they were this close, it was hard to keep from touching Sherlock. For all his financial troubles, the clothing he wore was finely made and silken to Jim's fingers. What was more alluring however, were the supple muscle and tendon underneath. Sherlock's skin was pale as snow where it was finally revealed at the end of a cuff. It ran into hands so finely sculpted that Jim could see the shape of each bone, muscle, and vein beneath the skin. He could name them in Sherlock's hands and the act would not be tedious in the least.

"I do, and unfortunately I won't let you borrow one. Even with collateral to ensure its return." There was no misreading Jim's focus; the criminal was certainly interested in his mind, but the interest didn't stop there. Sherlock shifted in discomfort, uncertain how he felt about that. He wasn't a stranger to occasionally wanting or being wanted, but nobody had ever really tried to act on it before. There was safety in keeping everything and everyone at a distance so he could function without distractions.

Jim sighed, gave Sherlock's wrist a squeeze and stood. The ease in which he shifted in and out of Richard Brook's persona was unnatural. Perhaps it was simply that he didn't like being "Jim" here in this apartment, in these clothes. Jim didn't fit. He demanded more out of the space he was in, and this was only the shell of one. A poorly lit set of rooms only a small time actor could afford didn't fit Jim Moriarty, physically small as he was.

He looked down at Sherlock, not completely Richard, but not completely Moriarty either. "Perhaps one day you might let me borrow that head of yours, instead."

"Only if the rest is still attached. I'm afraid I'd protest becoming the friend on your mantle." Sherlock twitched a smile toward him that didn't quite touch his eyes - still too unnerved about the implications of everything.

The detective stood and backed up a step, feeling more secure with a few inches of space between them. "I'll visit again." Perhaps in a few days he'd have puzzled out where Jim really lived.

When Jim smiled, he wasn't Jim anymore. "You're always welcome," he said cheerfully. "But uhm, I'll give you a call when I come by to watch you work. Don't want to startle the poor doctor." He giggled. "What would people think if I showed up on your doorstep before the case has even begun?"

"People think any number of things, most of them completely banal and idiotic. They're used to enough idiosyncrasies from me that they don't question anymore." Usually. Donovan had been an exception and was no longer around to view him with suspicion.

Sherlock swept past the man who was now Richard again, retrieving his coat and scarf and pulling them on. "I meant my request from before. Don't break my things. I don't want to have to break you in return."

Another giggle, high pitched and mirthful, was Richard’s response. "No you won't," Richard sang, "But I would loooooooove to see you try." He brought his hands together in excitement and went to see Sherlock to the door, smiling like they'd made plans to go to the candy shop.

Sherlock doubted that, but he kept it to himself. He'd make contingency plans in case it came to that. Sherlock turned his head to gaze at his host over his shoulder. "I suspect I'll be seeing more of you soon. I'm looking forward to witnessing your handiwork."

Richard was smiling and waving with only the fingers of one hand while he leaned in the door frame and watched Sherlock go. "Tah," he called out after the detective before he slunk back inside his rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underage scene warning: Between Richard (Jim) and Jake, at the beginning after their talk.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock somehow managed to sleep through the rest of the night and a goodly chunk of the next morning, waking slowly to the sounds of John puttering around the flat. It sounded like his colleague was tidying the place up, if the clink of glassware and the shuffle of papers were anything to go by. Sherlock turned over and stared at his alarm clock: 10:30 AM.

Unheard of. He'd thought for certain he'd have already gotten a call on his mobile by now, Lestrade pleading for him to come in and deal with the latest disaster. Perhaps Moriarty's assurances of _soon_ didn't translate to _tomorrow_.

Sherlock rolled out of bed and wrapped himself in his robe. He'd just have to find something to fill the day.

By the time Sherlock exiting his room, John was sitting by the kitchen table with his laptop. It and much of the floor space of the sitting room had been cleaned of the debris of Sherlock's papers. They'd been organized into little stacks, as neatly as John could make them while keeping them in the original order they'd been in while on the floor or the coffee table.

John looked up with surprise. "Had a bit of a lie-in, I see?"

"Unexpectedly." Sherlock blinked and wandered toward the kitchen counter, feeling unusually groggy from the extra hours of sleep. The coffee pot was empty and that wouldn't do at all. He measured a precise amount of grounds and water and got the machine started, listening impatiently to the gurgling hidden underneath black plastic.

"And you got rid of my things. I hope you didn't dump the liquid in the clay pot directly down the drain. That was a lye mixture."

"I uhm…" John glanced nervously at the sink. "…might have." He got up to peer down the drain as though he would be able to see anything. He turned on the faucet. Nothing horrible had happened to it so far. He looked over at Sherlock crossly. "If you would clean them up, I wouldn't get rid of them." Finding nothing else to be done about their sink, he sat back down and shook the tension from his shoulders. His fingers clicked away at the keys in the short, halting rhythm that usually meant John was writing in his blog.

"I don't clean them up because I'm still working on them." That wasn't quite true - for some of them he'd simply gotten bored and wandered on to the next idea that'd snagged his fancy - but if it kept John from destroying some of his tests in progress, it'd be a useful lie. Sherlock grabbed the large jug of vinegar kept under the sink and tipped all of it down the drain, making a note that more would have to be purchased in the near future. That, and perhaps some sort of labeling system could be employed to keep his flatmate away from the more dangerous experiments; John could have burned himself very badly.

"What are you-" Sherlock was cut off as his mobile began to ring, the sound echoing down the hall from his bedroom. He spun on his heel, there and answering it within moments.

"Good morning, good _morning!_ " a familiar voice sang loudly on the other end. "Have a good rest? I hope so because you've got a full day ahead!" Richard Brook chirped brightly. "You know I was up all night thinking, you have that effect on me, but I was _thinking_ that if I'm going to be your "shadow" for a while, you should really give me a tour of your workplace. I mean, I've always wanted to see inside Scotland Yard. Freely, that is. What do you say?"

Sherlock's features went deadpan, his mouth settling into a line of disapproval. It was entirely too soon in the day to be forced to endure such a syrupy tone. "If you stop that and give me sufficient time to clean up, I'll arrange a tour." One way or another, regardless of how Greg felt about it. "Give me an hour and a half. We'll meet you there."

Richard only giggled on the other end, high pitched and unnatural through the phone. "Can't wait. See you then, darling." The line went dead.

"Who is it?" John called from down the short hall. No doubt he'd gotten even more curious when Sherlock hadn't returned to the kitchen right away.

"Richard Brook, requesting the promised introductions." Sherlock gathered a set of clothes for the day and stalked toward the bathroom. "Call Lestrade and let him know we're coming, plus company. If he puts up a fuss, just tell him I'll owe him a favor if he suffers through it."

The bathroom door shut and the water began to run. Sherlock stood under the stream, heart pounding, wondering if Rich wanted to be there to see the next portion of the Game begin. It was almost like Christmas, but for an underlying strand of anxiety.

John closed his laptop with a sigh. The past few days had been extremely stressful, not knowing whether they were going to be framed, attacked, or what would happen next. He hadn't been able to shake the crushing sense that their world could be tipped over the edge at any moment, even when they were in a lull. Especially when they were in a lull. Because it wasn't over and there could come a knock on the door and behind it would be Lestrade with a haunted look on his face and handcuffs for both of them in his hands. John swallowed. He hoped he would be able to get over these fears soon. He didn’t want to live with them for the rest of his life.

In the meantime, it was probably good to keep busy. So he picked up his phone and called the DI. Greg answered with a note of worry that John had to relieve. "Nothing's wrong, we're fine. Actually, we just wanted to stop by the Yard with a guest. Bit of a long story, but nothing you need to worry about."

In the end, Greg gave his wary assent. "Just let me know when you get here so nobody throws you out when Sherlock pisses somebody off, alright?"

"Right," John replied, and they hung up.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom shortly thereafter, all sharp lines in a stark contrast of black and white. Obviously one of his dramatic days. Sherlock could already tell from John's expression that Greg had agreed to the visit.

"Let's go, John." His skin was crawling with the urgent need to be _there_ , Moriarty kept firmly within view while he waited for the first domino to fall. Anticipation was killing him.

John eyed Sherlock suspiciously at the curt tone. He couldn't tell whether Sherlock was excited about showing Rich the Yard or whether he was irritated and simply wanted to be over and done with it as quickly as possible. "Just let me get my coat…"

Once bundled up and prepared for the chilly autumn day, they left the flat in a flurry. John had to trot after Sherlock as they made their way down the street looking for transport.

Sherlock had a nigh-magical ability to find empty cabs. They only had to walk for a few minutes before one pulled over at his gesture. The rich clothing helped, no doubt, but there was more to it than that. If Sherlock had secretly studied the flow patterns of London traffic at different times of day, he wasn't saying.

"What were you blogging about?" Sherlock asked once they were safely ensconced in the back seat.

John shrugged in frustration. "Trying to find something I _can_ blog about, really." It had been tough, this case. The past two cases, actually. All of it was bottled up inside him and… most of it he found he couldn't talk about. He could lay down a skeleton of details. He could relay what they'd told Lestrade, but John felt the true substance of the story lay in what he _couldn't_ publicly state: Sherlock's history of substance abuse, his trust issues causing him to hide dangerous items around their flat, and biggest of all, that this new killer had been leaving things for Sherlock who in return had been keeping and withholding them from the Yard. Things that could potentially be used to implicate him in the killings. Everything had turned out, more so than not, to be one big secret. 

"Mmmm." Sherlock noticed the stiff lines of John's shoulders, the tension that radiated disgruntlement more than fear. John could lie adequately when a situation called for it, but he was not a naturally secretive person. He hadn't grown up with the necessity of keeping everything bottled and safely hidden out of sight, and so he was finding the new internal pressure discomforting. Sherlock wondered what that would be like, living with all of your frailties and secrets out in the open, so susceptible to damage and manipulation.

"Maybe you'll find something to write about today. I don't recall ever seeing detailed entries on Lestrade's division."

John glanced over and gave a hint of a smile at Sherlock's vote of confidence. A storyteller with a story he couldn't tell for the sake of safety was by definition an unhappy man.

"Hmm. The donut division?" John quipped mischievously. "Wonder why I haven't written about that before…?" It was a good idea. John could write about Richard's studio. He could write about the Yard. Maybe, someday when things boiled over and it was all sorted out, he could go back and write about these mysterious cases.

"Do grill Gregory on what, exactly, his division actually covers. I'd be most interested to hear what he admits to while trying to squirm around the question." Sherlock grinned at the thought. It'd be amusing to see someone else making Lestrade uncomfortable for a while. John's posture has already improved with the hope of finding a good story to tell and the expression on his flatmate's face made something twist inside him.

Sherlock was saved from having to examine the feeling by their arrival at the kerb in front of New Scotland Yard.

John spotted Rich right away. He'd been waiting outside the glass doors with his hands in his pockets. Contrasting with Sherlock, he was dressed in very casual attire - slim jeans, a loose white t-shirt, and a mismatched baseball cap. He even wore a camera around his neck like a proper tourist. The whole image struck John as amusing, and for once he suspected he probably wasn't the most awkwardly dressed. He waved as they came together. "Ready to see the most top secret, classified, on the down-low work you'll ever see?" John raised his eyebrows conspiratorially, wondering all the while whether some of Rich's cheesiness was rubbing off on him.

The actor sauntered up to them with a big smile, obnoxiously smacking away at a piece of gum in his mouth. "Just don't lock me up, ‘kay?" 

"The officers might as a joke, but you won't get stuck in there," Sherlock responded, torn between amusement and irritation. Rich's facade was very effective but imitated exactly the sort of person that irritated Sherlock so much that he wanted to sabotage every aspect of their life. He settled on the idea of thoroughly picking the man's pockets at the first opportunity.

Sherlock nodded to indicate that Rich should follow and opened the front doors, leading them inside. The receptionist glanced up and did a double-take, her gaze fixing on their tag-along. "Wait, who is that? Holmes?"

"Media. Lestrade knows we're coming," Sherlock shot back without breaking stride, ignoring her protests as they continued down the hallway. "Intake is off to your right, where they book arrested suspects. Further down that way are several interview rooms with varying levels of security, along with connections to the Yard's holding cells. Easier transport between the two. Left here are the desks for the lower ranked officers, higher ranks earning placement further back in the building where noise is reduced and interruptions less frequent. The white door that you've spotted is the entryway to the break room, featuring coffee of truly abysmal quality and the stale pastries that seem to be a much-denied-but-frequently-indulged stereotype for this profession."

Rich rubbed his hands together with glee.

"Trust me, it's not _that_ exciting," John laughed. They had to walk a ways to get to Lestrade's office, and he had never really noticed before, not until they were leading someone else along. They took the lift, the three of them packed awkwardly between two officers who clearly had no idea who they were, judging by the questionable glances they received. Fortunately Rich seemed quite at ease, smiling and chewing away.

Different divisions were on different floors, and honestly John didn't know who went where exactly. He did know that they passed support, traffic, and the central ticket office along the way, none of which he thought Rich would be interested in.

"We only work with certain branches, so you're not going to get the full tour." The elevator stopped at the fourth floor and Sherlock stepped out. "This floor is generally the staff assigned to homicide, although there are a few CI inspectors who have desks here. DI Dimmock is the one with the atrocious tie," Sherlock pointed across the room, indicating a man in his mid-30s that could be seen through one of the office windows.

"He often works with DI Carter, the one with the severe eyebrows. I occasionally work with them, but they tend to get the straightforward cases: manslaughter, passion crimes, unspectacular thefts. Most of my cases are from DI Lestrade, whose office is in the back. After you've met him, we can go up to the Identification Bureau and the Cyber Crime Division, or down to the basement levels to see Firearms, Forensics, and the labs. No corpses are kept on-site, unfortunately, so if you want to interview the morgue technicians we work with, we'll have to arrange another tour."

"Brilliant," Rich said happily. He seemed to be quite pleased just to be inside the building, looking at everything he could, from the branches Sherlock pointed out to even the nondescript halls they passed, the stairwells, even the floor, windows, and ceiling.

John thought it a bit strange, but chalked it up to Rich's desire to be as thorough and accurate in constructing his show’s future set as possible.

Lestrade spotted them coming around the corner. He was having a conversation with another detective who spotted Sherlock and quickly made his excuses to be somewhere, anywhere, else. Lestrade looked much more presentable today. He must have finally gotten that sleep John asked him to, but he still bore heavy circles under his eyes. He sighed as they approached and looked like he was bracing himself for the unknown, even if John had promised their visit was harmless.

"So what's all this about then?" Lestrade fixed Sherlock with the question though his eyes darted to Rich, and then the camera hanging from Rich's neck. 

"Richard Brook is working on the creation of a programme covering our work. There is a lot to be observed about people that cannot be concisely described, so it was simpler to just have him shadow us and meet everyone we interact with regularly. Don't give me that look," Sherlock added as Greg raised an eyebrow. "You've brought a date in to show off your office at least once in the past six months, Ted routinely lets his girlfriend into the lab for company during work and activities afterwards, Sophie's let that writer boyfriend go through classified forensics photos for inspiration for his work, an-"

Sherlock actually went quiet when Greg held up his hand to staunch the unwanted flow of information. For once. "Richard Brook, this is Detective Inspector Gregory Emile Lestrade. He's not my boss," he clarified, in case there was any doubt about the matter.

"And I'm not his date," Rich added and stepped forward, holding out a hand with a cheery grin.

John had to stifle a snort of laughter.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and shook Rich's hand. "Good, because we all thought _he_ was," he nodded indicating John, who choked abruptly. Rich's grin turned sheepish. "So this is for a… what, a television programme?"

"Yes, yes!" Rich began enthusiastically eyeing Lestrade up and down. "We'll be building a full cast of characters based on the people Sherlock and John interact with on a day to day basis. Some settings, too."

The detective blinked. "Wait, does that include me?" He looked quickly to Sherlock, eyes narrowed.

Sherlock gave him a grin that was nearly feral. "Why else would I be bringing him here? It's not for the coffee and Anderson's monosyllabic approximations of conversation."

Despite the good-natured ease of it all, Sherlock could feel his shoulders tensing. He'd suspected the Rich was the culprit behind everything when he'd originally suggested this visit. Now he knew it for certain, and he was waltzing through Scotland Yard, introducing him to everyone in the Met that he knew. It was lunacy.

Rich grinned enthusiastically beside Sherlock, having finished his visual inspection of Lestrade. "So Inspector, in what capacity do you usually work with Mr. Holmes?"

Lestrade, who now looked slightly mortified, might have been an insect pinned under the needlelike gazes of two bug collectors. He was thrown for words. _A television show? On Sherlock?_ "I, well, we… call on his… uncommon expertise when…" Greg shook his head, not sure if he wanted to finish that sentence and make himself look like a fool. "Don't you need my permission to…to… what exactly are you putting in this show?"

"Don't worry. Brook's target audience is children. I doubt he'll be incorporating anything too traumatizing, unless you count musical numbers." It was all worth it, just to see this look of pole whacked, abject horror on Greg's face as he and Rich stared the man down. "DI Lestrade calls me in to work on cases when the Met is puzzled and at a dead end, which is often."

"Not that often," Lestrade floundered to save himself. "And… _Children??_ You're making a bloody _kid's show_ on _him_?" He gestured to Sherlock as though he were the last person in the world Greg would ever consider child-friendly. Which was probably true.

Rich nodded emphatically.

John decided that only he could save the situation. " _Actually_ it's more about my blog, about the cases and how Sherlock uses science and reason to solve them." At Lestrade's look of bewilderment John decided there really was no saving it. "It's, uhm, an educational detective show."

"I was quite reluctant at the start to even consider it, but these two managed to convince me to relent." Sherlock was having a field day watching Greg's mental thrashing as he struggled to process and keep up. "With all of the rubbish filling the airwaves, they could do worse than adding a show to teach people to think properly. The studio is drawing from real life, however, which means giving Richard ample opportunity to observe what he needs to for the casting and set. Within reason."

Lestrade was obviously caught somewhere between flabbergasted, wary, and a tiny bit flattered about the idea of being portrayed on telly. The emotions passed over his face in near perfect succession until he finally landed somewhere between intrigued and cautious. If Sherlock thought a piece of fiction had potential, that was saying a lot. On the other hand, after being subject to relentless pickpocketing and other troublesome pranks, Greg was very aware of Sherlock's vindictive side. He had no desire to be cast as a bumbling fool for all the world to see, children's show or not.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Well, see to it that you stay out of the way, and let me know when and what you plan on showing him, and… and… who exactly are you casting from the Met?"

Sherlock turned towards Richard. "Valid question. I only offered to show you the people I work with. Was a particular area more important to examine than others? Lestrade is important, but I can't imagine you need to meet Anderson unless you need ideas for comedic relief. Even then, he's probably unsuitable, as comedy requires a minimum level of wit."

Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, smugly fingering the few items he'd lifted from Rich while attention had been on Lestrade. Any annoyance it triggered would be suitable payback for the man's aggravating persona.

Rich eyed Lestrade and tapped one finger to his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, probably only the people you work with directly. We can decide from them which traits to use for our characters."

Lestrade swallowed. "I will be wanting to have a say in this if you do plan to put me in this…show."

"Oh don't worry!" Rich exclaimed, "You'll get to see the script if we base anyone on you _directly_." He grinned and then turned to Sherlock. "Now you mentioned there was the Cyber Crime Division upstairs? And forensics downstairs? I'd _love_ to see both."

"I can't let you play with any of the systems, but we'll take a look." Even Sherlock wasn't supposed to have access to the lab computers upstairs without supervision, but like so many things at the Yard, either he didn't get caught or the infraction was overlooked whenever someone noticed.

"Let me know if anything new turns up," Sherlock said to Lestrade, touching two fingers to Rich's shoulders to turn him back toward the elevator. "We'll be back in a little bit. Brook may want to ask you a few questions."

Rich smiled happily and pressed his weight ever so slightly into the touch as they left Lestrade to mull over his television image. John walked on Rich's other side, the three of them unconsciously in step until they reached the lift. It was empty when they arrived, and for two floors they waited in quiet anticipation. The Police Central e-crime Unit was part of the Specialist Crime Directorate and a more than decent sized branch - one that had doubled over the past several years, in fact.

Rich gave a whistle as they stepped off the lift. "We'll never see it all in one day," he mused. "Is this where they access the HOLMES database?"

"Yes, although there are smaller access points on other floors if you have the proper authority. They just updated the system to its second iteration not too long ago. The new system is more flexible and more capable of linking separate incidents together to analyze patterns." Sherlock glanced sideways at his companions, bracing for the question that always surfaced whenever the database system was mentioned in a conversation: was it named after you?

"The larger lab that you see over there is for proper cyber crimes - hacking, data and identity theft, the usual. The other rooms attached to the main lab are all subdivisions that use the same systems but offer more privacy and quiet for research. Anything that needs to pull references against the database can be processed up here, so there's some fingerprint analysis, covert ops, human trafficking and sex crimes tracking, and so forth. Traffic mapping and a limited portion of the Met's CCTV networks can also be accessed on a few computers here, although main access is down a few floors in Traffic OC." Sherlock rarely interacted with the staff on this floor, preferring to work with the systems directly to get what he needed.

Richard surveyed the area with interest, then turned to Sherlock. "How would you normally research a case through this system? Or do they pit you against the database and say 'may the best Holmes win'?" A trick of the light made Rich's eyes glint with humor.

"Is that going to be one of the points in the show, searching through a computer system?" John asked, unsure how they could make that interesting.

"Absolutely!" Rich grinned. "You use all the tools you have at your disposal, and a database of information is one of the best. Our audience has Wikipedia…Sherlock has his brain…the rest of the Met, from what my own limited research has told me, has the HOLMES system?"

"I'm supposed to tap one of the lower level officers to input the data queries I need, but it's painful trying to get them to do it quickly when they want to know _what_ and _why_ and leave out everything of importance." Sherlock traced a finger over the edges of the stolen badge in his pocket, wondering how long it's take Greg to notice this time.

"It's easier to just access it while the staff are distracted. The system functions much like any other search engine, with various matching types and wild card searches, but data is linked together more smoothly and has a number of graphical interfaces. It can make linked charts and other visual representations to simplify things for those who have trouble picturing the data relationships in their minds. It also can pull records, show the materials and exhibits being prepared for a court case, and a variety of other useful functions. Some of the data is interesting in itself - some of the blood spatter analysis photos are quite artistic, but the Met seems to think otherwise."

One corner of Rich's lip pulled his mouth into a half smile, meeting Sherlock's gaze while John rolled his eyes in the other direction. Rich sighed dramatically. "Such a shame though…with all these new technologies and diehard workers here 24/7, they're still slowed down by the courts. Hm?" He gazed up at Sherlock with eyes wide and innocent, leaning into the man subtly. "Cyber criminals move at the speed of light. The police move at the speed of law."

"Which is why they call me so often. I don't pay attention to the red tape and boundaries. Lestrade somehow manages to pull enough strings that evidence gets admitted even when collected outside procedure. He'll deny he does it, but I know he does. I should find out how sometime," he murmured to himself, a flicker of a smile clearly showing he was considering blackmail. Or, at the least, a bit of teasing. "I don't have the patience for the courts. They're nowhere near as interesting as the crimes."

John cleared his throat. "Maybe we'd best leave that part out of the show, yeah?" He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock pointedly. They'd end up with a horde of angry parents if John let Sherlock get _too_ accurate. Rich gave a little shrug to concede John's point, but it didn't wipe the smile off his face.

"So, what else did you say there was, forensics downstairs?" Rich asked, curiously. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the flow of workers moving between departments on this floor.

"Yes, down in the basement levels." Sherlock would have chided Richard for not paying attention if it weren't for the fact that he knew the man was rapt, all appearances to the contrary. "Are you getting everything that's necessary, or do you want to write it down?" Sherlock asked as he walked them in a circular route around the floor, bringing them slowly back to the lift bank.

"No need," Rich smiled. "If I write it all down as soon as we're done, I'll be set. I would like to sit down with Inspector Lestrade though; I'll need to take notes then." He cocked his head toward John. "Is that how you work?"

"Me? Oh. With the blog I guess, yes. If I think of something particularly crucial or that I know will be difficult to explain later, I'll write it down while we're on a case, but," John laughed, "usually I don't have the time to take notes. Not while chasing after him."

"Hmm," and the raise of a slim brow were Rich's only responses.

"That explains all the questions afterwards," Sherlock commented as they entered the lift and he pressed the button to get them to the appropriate floor. "We'll have to work on your memory, John. I know a number of exercises that can assist with that."

The floor they stopped at was noticeably different in atmosphere. A slight breeze tugged them in, indicating that the entire floor was equipped with a negative air pressure ventilation system for safety. A few techs glanced up as they walked past, all white gear and plastic protective goggles.

John shivered. He didn't spend much time down here at all, only once or twice when he'd had to visit Anderson. All around an unpleasant experience that he usually tried to avoid. Anderson, like Donovan, treated John as a proxy for Sherlock when the other man wasn't there, and Anderson had always been a bit harsher with John. "Not exactly a cozy place to work."

Rich, on the other hand, had eyes for everything they passed. He was intrigued with the workstations, not uncomfortable at all.

A slow chill could settle into the skin the longer one was on the forensics floor, much like what happened when Sherlock and John visited the morgue at St. Bart's. The lower temperature was necessary for the work that was done there, and the regular employees dressed to compensate, but the cold was just one more thing that usually upset visitors.

A sharp-featured man spotted them from a lab station towards the back and tossed down his pipette, striding towards them as anger and grief pinched his face into even harsher edges. "Joy," Sherlock muttered, his frame tensing for the inevitable fight. He didn't want to be seen retreating from this.

" _You._ " Ted Anderson snapped his latex gloves off, the sound made more alarming by the relative quiet of the floor. "You have the _nerve_ to come down here? After what you've done?"

"Since you seem to need confirmation for your faulty senses, yes, I have come down here. I don't have time to correct your work today, however." Anderson's jaw clenched, his angry gaze leaving Sherlock to fix on Richard, then John.

John looked between Sherlock and Anderson, bewildered. A knot of tension formed deep in his chest as it occurred to him that Anderson was about to accuse Sherlock of something, something that made him think back to the guns hidden away in their apartment and Sally's blatant insinuations before she'd died. Of course Anderson would have been her confidant in whatever theories she'd had on the chainsaw murder, and maybe even on the Met officers gunned down in their own homes, but John had expected quiet loathing from the man, not something so…bold. "What, exactly, _has_ he done?" John asked sharply.

At their side, Rich simply raised his brows, completely unperturbed. Anderson might as well have been throwing an irrational tantrum.

"You know _exactly_ what he's done," Anderson nearly hissed. His red-rimmed eyes darted between them, well aware that he was making a statement that could get him in trouble, his emotional limits pushed too far for him to care. "Sally was gathering evidence on him, and so you turned around and _killed her_ , didn't you?"

Anderson stepped into Sherlock's personal space, unable to hide a shiver of fear even as he stared up at the detective and _raged_. "All of her files are gone. She'd kept that project quiet, but you figured it out, didn't you? You tricked her, got her alone, just like the rest of the cops who disagreed with you, disliked you, but shooting her wasn't enough. You had to torture her by _burning her alive_." The man's voice cracked at that last, eyes shut against some horrible image - he'd seen the photographs from the arson scene.

Sherlock watched with wide-eyed fascination as Anderson clenched his fists and screwed up his courage, giving him a look of pure hatred. "I know you're going to target me next. Because I know. You're not going to find me so easy to kill. I don't care if I have to do it by myself, if it takes me _years_ , I'll prove it was you, and I'll make you regret it if you try to take me out of the picture like all the rest."

John took a step forward, fists clenched at his sides and ready to defend Sherlock in the middle of the forensics lab if he had to. Anderson's accusation sunk like a weight into him, but the more immediate threat to Sherlock kept him focused. Sherlock wasn't budging, but John would put himself between the two men if he had to. He glared Anderson down, which really meant glaring _up_ a bit, but the determination behind it wasn't lost. " _Back. Off,_ " John said coolly.

Sherlock was still looking at Anderson like he was a bizarre animal with a genetic anomaly he'd never seen before, all clinical curiosity instead of concern. He was registering the man's distress but it didn't touch him. "I'd say you've lost your mind, Anderson, but that happened a long time ago. You are upset, and it is unacceptable to be shrieking baseless accusations in the middle of Scotland Yard because you've lost your fuckbuddy under unexpected and violent circumstances. Throwing a tantrum or attempting to pin blame on me will not alter the fact that she is dead. I suggest you take time off to process and stabilize yourself, because much as I thought it impossible, you're functioning _below_ your normal level and likely jeopardizing the integrity of whatever case evidence you're currently working with."

Sherlock had to step back and duck out of the way as Anderson moved around John and tried to take a swing at the detective.

John spun and grabbed Anderson from behind. With a squawk of surprise Rich jumped out of the way as they grappled. Anderson nearly lost his balance with John attached to him from behind and immobilizing his arms. He tried to swing his body wildly from side to side. They thrashed like that until they fell to their knees and it became obvious that Anderson wasn't getting out of the hold.

Everyone around them froze. A dozen pairs of eyes had been watching the conversation from the moment their coworker raised his voice to Sherlock, and now they were hovering in a very loose, very open circle around the scene. Clearly no one present outranked Anderson - that or they were too surprised to do anything.

"I'm going to let you up, and we're going to leave, and you're not going to follow us, okay?" John spoke finally.

Anderson's chest was heaving and he looked like he'd bite John if he could. The forensic lead gave one last attempt to struggle free before he went limp, shaking. He nodded.

Sherlock started to walk backwards, one arm outstretched to keep Richard moving behind him. "Forensics tour is over."

Anderson gave an odd, strangled-sounding laugh as John finally released him and went to rejoin Sherlock and Rich. "Better hurry up and take care of the rest of your old contacts! There are still plenty who aren't dead yet. One of them will talk."

They headed back to the elevator very unsettled. John slumped against the back wall when the doors closed, lamenting that he'd just had to disable _Anderson_ and there were _definitely_ going to be questions about the accusations he was spouting all over the place. John couldn't make sense of the last part. Contacts? People dying?

"Lovely friends you have," Rich quipped, looking nervous and checking his camera for damage even though he'd been far from Anderson's reach.

"Anderson isn't a friend." Sherlock couldn't state it fast enough. His mind was already turning, wondering just how much Donovan had shown Anderson, whether there had been copies hidden somewhere... and what Anderson had meant by his last point.

"We need to see Lestrade." Sherlock punched the button that would deliver them to the correct floor.

"Hm." Rich pursed his lips thoughtfully and mused aloud, "We need a bumbling, lackey antagonist character. For the sake of comedy. Yes….that would do nicely."

John wanted to ask Sherlock about what Anderson had said, but he couldn't in front of Rich. Not when they had a slowly building pile of evidence against them. Still, as bad as it would look, he had to believe that they would be able to explain the guns, the miniature camera and video, and the unexplained "real" killer who was _most definitely not Sherlock_. Or himself.

Sherlock withdrew behind the impassive mask he wore so often when dealing with people, focused and emotionless as he stalked out of the elevator towards Lestrade's office. Word of the tussle downstairs hadn't yet reached the staff on this level, so none of the officers gave them a second glance as they walked by. A quick look through the office window confirmed that the DI was still at his desk.

Sherlock let them in, closing the door behind them so they could have some measure of privacy. "Anderson just made an embarrassingly poor attempt to attack me in the forensics lab, yelling something about old contacts of mine being dead." Blunt and to the point.

Lestrade sat back in his chair, startled at their abruptness. "'Old contacts'? What are you talking about? Anderson _attacked_ you?" Lestrade leaned forward, hands flat on the surface of his desk. He had no idea what Anderson was insinuating, that was clear, but he caught onto one point of Sherlock's statement. Probably not the one Sherlock had intended. 

"Just a bit," John cut in. "He's alright." He couldn't stop the hint of a smile.

Behind them, the flash of a lens went off. All eyes turned to Richard, who gave a little laugh and lowered his camera self-consciously. "Sorry. Good shot."

The look Sherlock gave him clearly said _not a good time_. "Have there been any new homicide cases in that you haven't told me about? He seemed to think I knew recent victims _besides_ the cop killings. His phrasing made it clear that he was referring to a separate group of people."

A line formed between Lestrade's brows as they creased together. "Yeah, there were. Two this morning. But they were...," he gestured for help with one palm up like Sherlock should understand, "they were just OD cases. A bit weird, I'll give you that - they shot up on multiple narcotics, but didn't look like they were related." The rest of the world went on around them with its own set of problems. Greg couldn't expect every body they discovered to be connected to their current case.

Sherlock's mask of indifference cracked a bit, gaining a frown to answer Lestrade's. It was too much to be coincidence. "I need names and locations, and the toxicology reports if you have them." If he had a bit of information as leverage, he might be able to get people to talk.

"I can tell you most of that right now." Lestrade said, more serious now that he realized something was up. He shifted a few things on his desk and grabbed a small tablet. With a few swipes across its screen he pulled up files on the two victims. "Found in a warehouse in south London this morning, we have Jeremy Parker, went by 'Jay', and Todd Wilson, better known as," Lestrade raised a brow, "'Rat'. Died of overdose on…cocaine and heroin. Looks like some old fashioned opium mixed in there, too. Quite a concoction." He passed the tablet over to Sherlock.

Sherlock paled at the last, scanning over the information on the screen as he refused to look at Richard. He took a shaky breath and swallowed, recognizing the faces of both dealers. "This is connected." His fingertips swiped over the surface of the tablet, zooming in on the coordinates where the bodies had been found. It took an effort to raise his eyes and look at Greg.

"You probably never got a debriefing. I expect some of the relevant files have been sealed and conveniently lost. These two..." He gestured at the screen. "They dealt in a lot of things. They had any number of drugs that were easier to overdose on and far more popular. They also weren't habitual users, and not for those three substances. Those were my three vices of choice."

Both John and Rich's wide eyes snapped over to Sherlock. In an instant they wore the same expression. Rich's looked purely authentic, though all he had to do was mirror John.

Greg lowered his head, letting the gravity of the situation wash over him. "Shit. _Shit._ ...I'll send a team out there to sweep the site again. We had it wrapped up, no leads so far, but we thought it was just a one-off hit by one of two hustlers in the area."

"Not with what's been happening recently. It won't be a coincidence, two people I used to know killed by old habits of mine." Sherlock's gaze shifted sideways. "More will turn up, unless I can get to them before the killer can."

He wasn't expecting sympathy - as much as the Met dislike murders of any kind, focus would be on the murdered officers, not drug peddlers who were already complicating other people's lives. Neither could he simply map out the names and locations of everyone he ever bought from or dealt with - the territories were probably no longer accurate and he was reluctant to write what was essentially a hit list of people to be arrested on substance charges.

"If this is the same guy, if we can _prove_ that this is the same guy, then I'll have the whole of the Met on it. But as it is, I can send one team back to look at the scene with new eyes. I'll call what informants we have, if any, who knew these guys and see if they can pick up on anything we can't. There's gotta be something, right?" Lestrade looked almost pleading at that point.

"I can get them to talk better than your informants can." It was true on multiple levels, even if he knew Greg wouldn't want to hear it. Even having been gone from the scene for a few years, even if he was becoming recognizable from the media attention... he'd been a client and dealer for years, and he hadn't turned the rest of the network in when he'd been forced to get clean. That last fact would open doors that new, minor informants couldn't touch.

Greg looked at him seriously. "Are you sure you want to do this?" He knew Sherlock was capable now, but he'd seen the man back then. And ‘capable’ would not have been a word of choice. He'd also had the misfortune of working with officers, informants, victims, a long list of people who'd functioned just fine until they had to go back and face their personal demons.

John looked like he wanted to say something, too. He glanced between Lestrade and Sherlock, but didn't think this was the time to undermine his friend's optimism.

Sherlock looked haunted, skin bleached of color and very, very frail. "No, but it's the best option we have. If we leave this, the killer will just add to the body count, starting with anyone that knows anything of value." Which might mean losing the Game. Was that the point of all of this? Proving that he couldn't be touched by past weaknesses?

It took effort not to turn and take out his frustration on Richard for dealing the cards so close to his personal sphere again.

Lestrade screwed his eyes closed in frustration. "I don't like the sound of that." He shook his head. "You're gonna get a backup team whether you like it or not. If you think you can go in there, wherever you need to go, and find someone who'll talk, we're putting a wire on you and our guys will be waiting outside the door. Got that?"

John picked that moment to step closer, showing subtle favor for this idea. He was incredibly thankful for Greg's sudden protective streak. Usually, the DI just let Sherlock run off wherever he wanted to without regard for protection of any sort. He was after all, officially only an independent party consulting with the police.

Awkwardly, Rich mirrored John's stance, coming shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock on his other side with a nod and tight smile for only the detective. He was going to enjoy this. 

Something cold was filling Sherlock's core, a sense of inevitability. He nodded at Greg. "Fine, but it has to be small. Too many people draw too much attention. They'll also stay at a distance and only intervene if needed. John will accompany me." He was comfortable with John, he _trusted_ John, was confident in his flatmate's skill with a gun.

"I'll need different clothing." Neither junkies nor dealers would talk to him outside of the exclusive clubs if he showed up looking too posh.

"We've got clothes you can use," Greg said, nodding along. They were well practiced in sending people into various scenarios undercover.

"When do you want to go?" John straightened his shoulders, resolute now that he knew he wasn't going to be sending Sherlock off into the unknown. He was going to be going there with him.

"Tonight. Nobody will be out during the day, and if we wait any longer than that, we're just going to find more corpses." Sherlock eyed John's jumper with a thoughtful expression. "We'll need clothing for you as well."

John looked surprised at that, though really he should have guessed. "Uhm…okay," he said, scratching the back of his head and wondering just how much acting he was going to have to do. Rich shot him an overly sympathetic look, one that plainly showed he could see John's worries written all over him.

"You let us know when and where to meet you before you go in tonight, alright?" Lestrade fixed Sherlock with a pointed finger. "Or I swear to God I will come and find you. Our men can wait outside and we'll have a van nearby. If you think you can get them in with you, all the better, but I won't expect it." Greg sighed and picked up his phone, dialing. "I'll see if Detective Morgan can find you an outfit…she usually takes care of those things."

"Bring everything to the flat by seven. We'll need time to change, get ready, and travel. No squad cars, nothing that's going to attract attention when it enters the right neighborhoods. Word spreads very quickly." Sherlock turned his head slightly towards John, watching the anxiety pass over his colleague's features. "I haven't been in the area for a while, so anyone I can manage to find won't be stupid enough to follow me anywhere, but information shouldn't be an issue."

"You uhm, you do realize I haven't done much acting since college, right?" John mumbled. He tried to look at Sherlock but his eyes landed closer to the man's shoulder.

The moment the word "acting" left John's mouth, he became aware of Richard standing beside them. He _was_ an actor…but judging from his small stature, big expressive eyes, and abnormally sweet nature, John couldn't imagine him in anything other than wholesome, sensitive roles.

Lestrade must have caught the hesitation because he jumped on John's subconscious thought right away. "Oh no. I don't care if he's got an Oscar. Sherlock, you are not involving any more civilians in this than you already are."

"Lestrade's correct. For once," Sherlock grated, turning from John to the actor hovering by his side. "I said you could shadow us, but that was when the circumstances dealt with corpses, not living dealers and gunmen. You'll have another opportunity." For all he knew, Rich would purposefully sabotage everything right in the middle of the job with a misplaced word or action.

"It won't be that difficult to act, John. I'll take care of the visuals and provide the prompting."

"More than happy to leave the action to you boys," Rich quipped with a nervous smile while John looked…not wholly convinced.

"Alright," Lestrade sounded like he was starting to get annoyed. Really he couldn't be blamed; he had been under so much stress lately that the littlest things were setting him off. "The lot of you, out of my office. I don't want to see you until toni—" He'd shifted in his chair and suddenly noticed something. " _Sherlock, where is my badge?_ "

Sherlock sighed and dug the pilfered item in question out of his pocket, tossing it to Greg. All of his normal satisfaction for the prank was gone, buried in under his preoccupation for what the evening would bring. "It took you longer than normal to notice today. I suppose it can be excused, given the circumstances. Stress can lower cognitive performance and dull the senses."

Lestrade just glared and pointed to the door. " _Out_. Now."

Rich exhaled loudly when they scurried out back into the main office. "You guys just can't catch a break can you?"

"Doesn't seem like it." John ran his hands over his face, trying not to think about this revelation could mean for Sherlock. "It'd… probably be best for us to cut your tour short. I'm sorry, Rich. Maybe we can get Greg to talk to you later."

"He'll talk when he's not feeling at the end of his leash, which will be two to three days after this latest problem is solved, barring no new cases or reminders of untimely deaths of officers. Now is simply not the time if you want accurate answers. What you'll get is spleen. Which might be useful if you want to make his character incompetent and angry, but not if you want to portray him as he is."

Sherlock swept off towards the door, listening to John and Rich fall in behind him.

As soon as they were out the doors, John halted. He was patting his hands over his pockets, looking for something. "Sherlock…did you take my phone, too?" He sounded annoyed, though Sherlock didn't usually pickpocket John.

Richard raised his eyes innocently and looked between the two.

At the barest hint of confusion from Sherlock's gaze, John held up a hand. "Nevermind. I probably left it in Lestrade's office. Wait up." He turned and hurried back in.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, amused smile curving the lines of his mouth. "I suppose that's the cue that you want your things returned, as well." The innocence filling Richard's gaze didn't suit him, not after what Sherlock had seen. All the depth and darkness had been shuttered away, leaving only the shallowest layer, a child's finger painting over a Rembrandt. It was a small consolation to know that it was merely hidden, not destroyed.

Richard, step by step with that horribly false smile painted over his lips, sauntered up to Sherlock. He stopped only a hair's breadth away from the detective, forcing him to stare down into Richard’s gaze, chest to chest in the middle of the sidewalk in front of Scotland Yard. Without any subtlety, Rich leaned in and slipped his hands into Sherlock's trouser pockets. It was an unusual angle, one that had him on his toes to manage, but Richard found what he was looking for.

"Aha, there it is…," he exclaimed in a breathy tone, taking his time to extract his pen and pack of gum. The position left them looking anything but decent.

"It's a little soon for that, don't you think?" Sherlock asked very quietly, swallowing down just how uneasy the touch had actually made him. "I'm told people commonly get to know one another for a few weeks before they start feeling comfortable getting in the other person's trousers."

He wanted to step back, but didn't want to draw attention. Sherlock was afraid to look at how much attention had already been drawn, to see whether the cameras scattered about the floor were pointed in his direction and recording.

Richard let his feet fall back flat on the ground, holding up the large black pen and little packet of gum between them. Thankfully, the motion returned a portion of Sherlock's personal space. "You think so?" Richard asked curiously. "I wonder then how these managed to get out of mine?" His eyes held no threat, but there was a well of unspoken intentions churning beneath his exterior.

Sherlock smile warmed from its frozen, anxious state and widened slightly. "I never said I wasn't a hypocrite." He stepped away from Rich now that the actor had his belongings back, but his gaze stayed locked with the other man's.

John picked that moment to rejoin them.

It looked like he'd come jogging from Lestrade's office quite quickly, clutching his phone. The scene he stumbled upon, at first glance looked like the one he'd expected to return to, but at second glance was just a touch…off. He stepped out on the sidewalk, noticing only when he'd gotten too close to stop and think about it before he disturbed them. Sherlock was stepping away from Richard and both men had a strange kind of smile about them, like they had just shared something secret. 

"Ah, found it," John held up the phone. He couldn't be sure that whatever had happened while he was gone wasn't all in his head.

John's interjection broke the moment, and Sherlock's attention snapped sideways to fix upon his assistant. "Excellent. Try not to lose it later tonight. The people we'll be dealing with can do a lot of destructive things with personal data. Matters are going to be trying enough without added complications."

The detective paused for a moment, then appeared to give himself a shake, one hand extending towards Rich. "This is where we part ways. I'll contact you again when it's a better time."

Rich took Sherlock's hand and grasped it firmly. His smile held a kind of excitement that hadn't shown through until now. "I'll see you soon. Go, fight your good fight."

John took a deep breath, shaking himself free of whatever had crossed his mind a moment ago.

"And you too, soldier," Rich said, nodding warmly to Sherlock's companion. John nodded back and gave a quick thanks before Rich turned, waved, and headed off down the street with a bounce in his step.

Sherlock stared for a long moment, eyes narrowed the same way they did every time he was eying a puzzle piece he didn't quite know where to place. Rich was half a block away before he turned his attention back to John.

"We're going home to prepare. I can brief you on what you need to know while you make lunch, and then we'll practice."

Slowly, John nodded, but his expression was flat. He'd been watching Sherlock watching Rich… and that was just bloody awkward although he couldn't put his finger on _why_.

"Alright," he agreed when he remembered to be nervous about his acting. Lunch, he could manage. 

Sherlock flagged down a cab and they climbed into the backseat. John looked more conflicted than Sherlock had anticipated, although he supposed a bit of nerves was only to be expected when he was getting dragged into a whirlwind tour of London's drug trade.

"John." Sherlock waited until his flatmate stopped staring out the window and finally looked at him. "It won't be that difficult. I'll do most of the talking and performance. Reacting to me shouldn't be too taxing, and I'll make sure you look the part."

"Yeah, yeah okay." John tried to picture in his mind how it would go. He could stand by Sherlock's side and look dour. It would probably be easier than he thought it would. Unless he said something completely stupid and got them both caught out. Right. Still, he gave Sherlock a bold smile to assure him that John would be up for the task.


	13. Chapter 13

When they arrived home, Mrs. Hudson made a fuss at them in the doorway. "You two have been making such a racket lately," she said, "In and out all day and all night. And did you see on the telly? All those police officers? Goodness."

"Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock actually smiled at her, reaching out to touch her shoulder affectionately as they passed her in the entryway. Their elderly landlady was one of the few people Sherlock seemed to drop his shields for; she didn't take offense to his caustic moods and verbal missteps, and while Sherlock didn't pay any mind to her scolding, he did make more of an effort to respect her. There was a real fondness between them, doubtless because she accepted him and his quirks.

"We have so much to do. Murders aren't in short supply right now." Anyone else would have looked drawn and haunted as he said it, but Sherlock appeared downright cheerful.

That got a smile out of her as well, albeit one she tried to hide. "Be decent," she swatted him on the arm reprovingly while John gave her a more polite hello.

Once in the sitting room, John tossed off his coat and clapped his hands together, rubbing heat back into them. "Okay then, what are we going to be doing tonight, specifically? And…who am I to be impersonating?" Once his hands were sufficiently warmed, he began rummaging through the refrigerator. Somewhat counterproductive for his poor fingers, in hindsight.

Sherlock hung up his coat and made a beeline for his room, talking at John over his shoulder. "We don't want to make this too difficult, so you'll be a new acquaintance of mine that's interested in buying." He opened the bedroom door and retrieved a few items from his closet, returning to the main room with two boxes under his arm. "You'll never have tried anything before and will be nervous, opting to have me set you up with a few trustworthy contacts and negotiate the first purchase. No one will expect you to know your limits or preferences that way, and it will be relatively simple for you to act the part."

Sherlock opened one of the boxes and extracted a jar of full of some sort of paste. He left for the loo without another word.

John nodded. That sounded relatively easy. Unless they decided he should sample any of his "purchases". John was a complete virgin when it came to hard drugs. Or any kind of drugs that didn't come in a prescription bottle for that matter. He'd barely had two hits of weed in his whole college experience.

"Sounds doable. But…how are you going to explain the part about you being a consulting detective now?" John asked loudly from the kitchen. He put the sandwich supplies on the counter well away from whatever Sherlock was taking out of his boxes.

There was no answer for a few minutes; the water pipes rattled and Sherlock emerged from the bathroom with damp hair and a freshly scrubbed face.

"You're overthinking that," he commented, taking a seat at the table and digging through the boxes again. "There are more officers than you think who indulge on the side. They'll be suspicious since I haven't bought for a while, but I'm known for murder cases, not drug busts."

Small containers and brushes were selected and plucked from the boxes, building little rows along the edge of the table.

John shrugged. That was true. In fact… "I suppose you could bring up all the occasions Lestrade's pulled a drug bust on _you_ recently."

John glanced over his shoulder while slicing tomatoes, but couldn't figure out what Sherlock was up to. A minute later he had a plate of sandwiches for the both of them, but when he set one in front of the detective, he still couldn't see what the little containers were for. He raised a brow curiously.

Sherlock grabbed his sandwich and ate as he picked through his collection of jars and powders, talking in between swallows. "It will look suspicious if I don't appear the part," he stated, as if that should explain everything. When John continued to stare, he rolled his eyes.

"Honestly. Would you believe someone who claimed to be deep in the habit if they had no tell-tale signs about them?" He opened one of the jars and tilted it for John to see - it looked like some sort of cream-based paint. Makeup, then.

John was taken aback. It was hard to imagine that Sherlock had looked so much different back then that he'd now need makeup to recreate the sickly effect. He'd at least probably had enough sense to hide needle tracks. John sat down across from the detective and looked over the jars. They came in all different colors and shades. He looked between the one in Sherlock's hand to the pale canvas of his face. And it really was a canvas. The man's skin, as light as it was, was nearly unblemished.

"What kind of 'tell-tale' signs can you just paint on?" John asked, although he knew he would soon see for himself.

"Quite a few. You'd be surprised at how the subconscious notices a lack of small details when the conscious mind glosses over it. People will get suspicious if they get a feeling I don't look the part, even if they can't quite pinpoint why."

Sherlock extracted a small mirror and stand from the box and started to work, the rest of his sandwich forgotten. The changes he made were subtle, only really leaving an impression as they began to layer upon each other. Pale skin got a sickly grey undertone, dark shadows touching the edges of Sherlock's eyes and rimming them in pink. His hair was beginning to dry at this point - whatever he'd put in it had changed his normally clean curls into a disheveled mess with hints of neglect.

Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and applied some sort of clear gel to the insides of either elbow. The goo dried into a remarkable facsimile of needle tracks, and a dusting of shadow simulated the subtle bruising that injection addicts acquired from constant syringe use. A quick application of some sort of eye drops and, after much blinking, Sherlock's pupils dilated.

The detective picked up the remaining half of his sandwich and started to work on polishing it off, darkened eyes fixed on John. He almost looked like a completely different person.

John had been staring for some time. It was Sherlock, certainly, but he'd gone from his usual pristine self to something quite…not "dirty" exactly, but ailing, unkempt. He looked sickly in a way that John had only seen in a few patients. "I'll add 'makeup-artist' to your list of professions, shall I?" John finally asked. The blown pupils in Sherlock's staring eyes were starting to unsettle him and he found himself waiting to eat his own sandwich until Sherlock stopped that. "Will you be wanting sunglasses?"

Sherlock glanced sideways at the windows and instantly regretted it, squinting in pain at the light. "Yes, that will be optimal. The drops will have to be refreshed before we go, of course. This was merely a demonstration for your sake. I wanted to confirm that you would react correctly. We won't need to worry about your acting skills, although you may want to try to look less horrified."

"Right. Well… Just one thing," John began carefully. "You won't need me to actually…take anything, right? I mean, I just get the stuff, you ask the questions, and we go?" His main concern, aside from the general unease of taking mind altering substances from unknown and untrustworthy persons, was that he would not be in a clear state of mind in a dangerous situation.

"...what? No." Sherlock shook his head, fixing John with an unnerving stare once again. "Neither of us will be testing anything. Depending on how things go, we may not even have to buy anything to keep up the ruse. They may offer you samples because you're a new potential customer, but you won't have to try it."

John relaxed a little. "Good." Yes, he could do this. Finally he delved into his sandwich. With Sherlock looking the way he did now, John had to wonder how differently the detective would be acting tonight. It wasn't unusual by any means for Sherlock to take on a role in the middle of a case. No, what was different about this one was that Sherlock would essentially be playing himself. A self John had never seen before. He had to wonder how different Sherlock had been back then, and how much was the same now.

John's shoulders lost their squared tension and Sherlock smiled. He'd known that John would come with him, if only out of the natural protective instinct he seemed to possess, but he hadn't been certain just how strained the situation would be. John's reaction to the makeup and bits of information was encouraging; it was still unknown whether something would cross the line later that night, but John seemed as comfortable thus far as could be hoped for.

Sherlock rose and went to fetch his violin case in the living room. He had time to kill and a great many things to think about, and music often helped with processing. If the melody became intense or dark, John would assume he was reminiscing about his past on the streets, not the current situation he was entangled in.

John perked up when the violin came out. It was a surefire way to put him in a better mood, or at least calm him into a docile one. When they would argue and John would be left sitting up in his room late at night, at the first sound of bow across strings his ears would fix on it and nothing else. By the time Sherlock got into whatever melody he'd chosen, John's anger would have been subdued. John himself would argue that it wasn't the music alone that did this to him, as it only happened with Sherlock's playing. It was Sherlock. It was the only way John could feel emotion radiating off the man, otherwise unseen and untouchable.

Sherlock took his time preparing. As carelessly abusive as he was to most things in the flat, furniture included, Sherlock was meticulous about his clothing and his violin. In the case of the instrument it was more than the fact that it was valuable in a monetary sense; it was an outlet that was always available. Cases came and went, pulling the detective out of his raging depressive periods and into fantastical manic swings, but Sherlock played through it all. It was a barometer for reading the man's internal weather, even when he was doing his best to hide his thoughts.

Sherlock brought the bow across the strings and started on part of a sonata by Bach, crisp notes filling the flat as he tried to make his plans as orderly as the progression of the melody.

As the notes flowed through the air around them, John took a long moment to simply watch Sherlock. The man was tall and slender, and there was something about the way a man with his build could look even more so when holding a violin. There were certain rare occasions, usually when dressed in pajamas and robe, that Sherlock looked gangly, with limbs too long and all out of place and with hair too wild. Never so was he with a violin in his hands. His back arched and his movements, swaying with the steady rising and falling rhythm of the music, caught the sunlight sinking in the sky behind him. His eyes were lowered and focused only on his task, and John would have felt a fool to say it aloud, but there were times like this, with the sun in his hair, that Sherlock, in all his otherworldly poise, looked like an angel.

Years ago, John had read one line of a book that had stuck with him whenever he caught Sherlock in a moment such as this. It was a simple thing, but for all of Sherlock's flaws and cynicisms, John felt it remained true. _Human concentration was the definition of innocence._

Stately baroque trailed off into the intensity of Vivaldi's Summer presto, tension filling the room like a storm cloud as Sherlock gritted his teeth and much-suppressed anxiety spilled over. He felt like he was caught, pulled in two directions at once until something reached the breaking point and snapped. Jim Moriarty was an intriguing puzzle he didn't want to give up so soon, and there was still the matter of how much hidden evidence the man had against him. Sherlock couldn't turn him in until he knew that he himself would be safe.

And he had no one to talk to. He couldn't tell John, never, and he couldn't tell Eli. Monologuing to his skull, cathartic though it might be, would be the same as telling John, what with the close confines of the flat.

Sherlock sighed and let the music transition into Bach again, shutting his eyes and losing himself in the ciaccona of a partita.

The only trouble John had with Sherlock's expression through music was that, when it suddenly and passionately flew out of control in a flurry of sharp notes, he was often at a loss as to what caused the change. He could no more read Sherlock's mind through the drag of his bow than he could through the man's usual silence. Sometimes he could tell, but only when the cause was obvious - such as when they'd been in a row. But today, breaking from a stately Bach into rich chaos and then suddenly back again, John could not fathom where Sherlock's thoughts lay. He could guess - the uncertainty of the case, the frustration of having to revisit times better left in the past - but without knowing for sure, without the benefit of discussion, John could not hope to comfort Sherlock. All he could do was be there to feel what emotion the man allowed him to share.

With his dinner long finished, John remained where he sat. He rested his chin in his hands while he let Sherlock's melody take him away.

Sherlock lost himself in it, his sense of time and space slipping away as one part of his mind focused on the problems at hand while the rest vented pent up emotions and energy. He eventually drifted away from recognizable pieces entirely, improvising on the fly.

A great deal of time had passed before Sherlock finally let the strings fall silent and began to put everything away. He felt exhausted and still hadn't come to any real conclusions. Problems were so much simpler to deal with when logic and time were sufficient cures.

By that time John had moved to the couch. At first he'd brought his laptop, but it turned out that he'd been more interested in relaxing than working and Sherlock's playing was far too alluring to pull himself away from it. He'd curled himself up in one corner, feet tucked between the cushions, lying on his side, and let himself drift in and out of wakefulness, enjoying the music while it lasted.

John wasn't sure how long it had been until Sherlock decided he was finished, but the sunlight had died away some time ago. John was content to stay where he was, parting one eye just wide enough to watch Sherlock put away his violin.

Sherlock wasn't fooled by the ruse - John's breathing was too fast for slumber, there was too much eye movement even for an REM cycle - but he was content to leave his flatmate be. After he had the instrument safely put away he paused, then moved to the mantle. In one smooth movement he'd snatched up Eli the skull and stalked off through the kitchen hallway to his room, shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock settled himself on his bed, laying on his stomach and staring hard at his deathly companion. It wasn't safe to talk, but perhaps _thinking very hard_ at his friend would suffice to make him feel better. It certainly couldn't make him feel any worse.

Without Sherlock's presence taking up the sitting room, the space suddenly became like a void.

John opened both eyes, still unmoving. Cars passed by on the street outside. Their noises filtered in through the quiet. A far away siren sounded. They were the sounds of the city at night, somehow distinct from those of the day. He couldn't quite put his finger on it if he tried, but John could feel the difference. He bit his lip and rose, leaving his comfortable position behind.

Slowly, he made his way to the kitchen, then to the threshold of the hall. He watched Sherlock's door as if he could see through it. After a moment's pause, he stepped up and knocked softly.

Sherlock's eyes widened at the sound and his head swiveled towards the door, pure paranoia washing over him for a moment. He reassured himself that it was impossible for John to hear him thinking in another room. "...y-yes? What is it, John?"

Eli did not remark upon the interruption.

John lowered his hand. "Are you…" … _alright?_ , he wanted to ask, because he could tell Sherlock wasn't, but what an easy question it would be to shrug off. John swallowed and cleared his throat. "If you need a stand-in for the skull… I'm here."

Fabric rustled softly as Sherlock slid off the bed, padding over to the door with his heart in his throat. After a moment's hesitation, he opened the door.

Sherlock looked like hell, between the ghastly pallor of the makeup and the strangely fearful look in his pale eyes. His mouth opened, then shut again as he stared at John, at a loss for what to do with himself or his flatmate. A hand movement was likewise aborted, fluttering back to his side as his gaze dropped to the floor.

Then Sherlock swallowed and stepped forward without warning. His arms slid around John and lifted him slightly off the floor, embracing him like a child might hug an oversized plush toy for comfort. He tucked his head in the crook between John's neck and shoulder. "...can't."

"Oh." John's eyes went wide and his arms stuck out from Sherlock's embrace. It was sudden and awkward until John realized that Sherlock was hugging him. His hands came to Sherlock's back, instinctively returning the gesture even though he didn't fully understand what had brought it on. "Oh. Okay…" He reached up to smooth a hand over Sherlock's hair, not quite believing that the top of his head was less than three inches from John's nose. He'd never touched Sherlock's curls before. "Just…it's alright." 

A shudder ran up Sherlock's spine and he nearly dropped John from sheer nerves. He hastily set his colleague's feet back on the floor, releasing him and stepping back. The smile Sherlock cracked at John was just shy of panicked, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Abruptly he retreated and the door shut in John's face. Sherlock slid to the floor on the other side of the barrier, biting down on his own hand to try to stifle his sudden urge to laugh. Or cry. He didn't know which.

"What?—Sherlock!" John stammered from the other side. His feet shuffled back and forth, trying to understand why there was now a door between them. If he'd been unsettled before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. He let his palm fall against the old wood, splayed out flat and just wished that he could push it open. His heart was racing. Sherlock was obviously upset, and quite understandably so after all they'd been through lately. 

But he couldn't talk to John?

John had managed to persuade the secretive man to open up about a great many things. Probably more than Sherlock had told anyone else he was acquainted with. Why then should John feel bereft when he chose not to share now? He sighed and let his hand fall.

Sherlock's head fell back against the door in an echoing thump, still shivering as the stress of the past few days worked its way through his subconscious. He was no longer confident that he was in control, like a swimming fish that's realized a little too late that it’s swam into a weir. Something felt wrong, the shadows coalescing on the edges of his vision until some great predator clawed him up and devoured him whole.

There was so much to think about, and John wouldn't understand, wouldn't forgive him, and Eli was silent, and suddenly everything snapped together. Of _course_.

Sherlock crawled back across the floor to his bed, snatching his mobile from the nightstand as he levered himself back up onto the mattress. His skull's blackened sockets watched him, steady and incurious, as he brought up his texting menu.

_Can't think. So many new pieces. -SH_

John's footsteps hesitated outside the door. He'd heard the thump. It made him indecisive, thinking that Sherlock was right up against the barrier between them.

It was a full minute before Sherlock received a reply, the chime of his phone clear in the silence of his room. John's stillness on the other side indicated that he'd heard.

_Dearest Sherlock, know that I do not wish to cause you pain. But one must take the fall before one can rise. -JM_

Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and turned over onto his side. He could hear, almost _feel_ John on the other side of the door, a shadow of silent accusation. He treasured John as a rare, beautiful person, pleasing even in his awkward lack of grace and his too-large heart filling his eyes and spilling over for everyone to see. John's heart was too fragile, he'd bleed with this, and Sherlock had never had any idea what to do with him, a delicate bird he feared to touch in case he broke its wings or it flew away.

The man behind the text scrawled on his screen was all embers and edges and sleek confidence. Sherlock could whisper any number of secrets or dark desires, impulses he'd considered and fantasized about but never dared try, and his dark eyes wouldn't even blink. They'd smile at him in invitation, because Sherlock knew what he was, and this monster wasn't content to watch from a distance. He beckoned.

Sherlock switched his phone to vibrate. _I know what to do, but don't know all the same. Shouldn't be logically possible. -SH_

_You're hesitating only because you fear what lies ahead. You fear what could be lost, and don't yet know what could be gained. It is something that could never be explained in text. It must be felt, known, learned, and then embraced to be fully understood. But, love, you will not be sorry. -JM_

Between the soft vibration of the message and the overwhelming silence of the flat was only the sound of a creaking floorboard. John finally moved away from the door.

Sherlock stared at the screen of his phone, unmoving and unseeing. He wanted to throw it against the wall but couldn't quite work up the energy, and so he stayed still and listened to the quiet creak of retreating footsteps as John abandoned him to his solitude.

Something hurt and he couldn't pinpoint what. It was similar to the feeling he got whenever he'd turned his father's watch over in his hands - raw and burning but vaguely pleasant in a way that pulled all of the air out of his lungs.

Sherlock reminded himself to breathe, shifting himself out of the lethargy and stretched time that reminded him of the way morphine used to distort reality and bring it all to a standstill. His fingers moved over the keypad again. _I've lost before. It feels the same. I dislike it. -SH_

_You won't be losing this time. Not really. -JM_

In the sitting room John stood with his arms wrapped around himself. It wasn't chilly per se, but he imagined the cold from the autumn night creeping in past the defenses of the solid walls, the layers of cotton, and into his skin all the same. He didn't know what to do. He stared out the window and wondered how well Sherlock would be able to handle going out tonight. He'd never, ever seen the man succumb to any ailment, physical or emotional, when it came to casework.

_Shaking like old times, and I need all the pieces, and you're keeping them just out of reach. Bastard._ Sherlock didn't know what he was doing; he never slipped into such a familiar tone in his texts, never rambled like this, not even when trying to sneak verbal razors under his brother's skin to see if he could get a rise out of him. _She came to visit and soiled the couch with tea and ash. I'm still not sorry. I'm not anything, not about that. -SH_

_Yes, yes, you're getting it now! You've gotten it all along, not so very deep down inside you. You knew you wouldn't be sorry… Are you having dreams about her now? Is that it? Is that slapdash conscience they've pasted over your brain telling you that you should feel sorry for what you've done? -JM_

_No. No, just... interesting. It's something I haven't seen yet, and I haven't seen the pictures of what was left to look at all the changes. Feels unfinished, but I don't have time now for that curiosity. -SH_

_I could show you, if you would like to compare photographs to your imagination. (Though I must say it is likely your imagination will prove to be more detailed. The lighting at the scene of the crime does not compare with what could be achieved on the dissection table.) -JM_

An incoming media message popped up on Sherlock's screen. Three photographs of high quality, but certainly not with the best angle or light, of the remains of Sergeant Donovan appeared in his inbox. They were obviously crime scene photos from the Met. Something so personal that Lestrade would only show him if Sherlock were to ask for them specifically.

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up, then turned into a full-fledged smile as he took in the details. Even Greg would probably have turned him down if he'd asked for this - it would have been too emotional for the man and he certainly wouldn't have appreciated Sherlock's unbridled curiosity.

_You'll have to show me how you do that. They've always refused my requests for copies of photos and got quite angry when I broke in to see them. - SH_ It had been one of many the many things that had set Sally off and started her petitioning to get him barred from cases and arrested.

_I would be delighted. -JM_

A moment later, Sherlock received another. _Buck up, dear heart. Today will pass and tomorrow will come soon. -JM_

Sherlock pondered the terms of endearment Moriarty seemed to enjoy using with him, turning the man's words and actions over in his mind as he flipped back to Donovan's photo. It was more than simply being an obsessive fan of his work or chasing after a pretty face; he knew this because he'd had to deal with both of those a few times before. Moriarty seemed to think they were kindred spirits and was chasing after him with a singlemindedness that drew to mind the desperate actions of adolescents. A crush, if a great deal more sophisticated than a teenage love song.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure that Moriarty was wrong about being two of a kind. His gaze slid to the door as his mind turned to John, bullet-torn in body and mind, left in the dark somewhere on the other side of the door.

John wouldn't understand, and Jim would force him to give him up. Or break him. That much he'd made clear. Sherlock wasn't certain he could bring himself to do either.

He clicked his phone off and stuck it in his pocket, rolling off the bed and opening the door a crack. He had the strangest sensation that John had vanished and it was filling him with a dread that wouldn't be assuaged until he saw his flatmate for himself.

He found the top of John's tawny colored head peeking over the arm of the sofa.

John was laying in it like Sherlock often did, arms wrapped around himself, toes curled, knees bent and turned inward toward the cushion. He wasn't asleep, just sitting quietly lost in his own thoughts. He looked up when he heard Sherlock approach. His eyes were wide, questioning, craning his neck and shoulders to turn enough to see his tall flatmate.

Sherlock looked grave, disturbed. And John, with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, wanted to ask questions.

But Sherlock didn't want to talk. Relief had briefly filled him at the sight of John tucked amongst his belongings, one more comfort of home, but he had no way of knowing what was coming. One look at the smaller man's face and Sherlock knew - if it came to a choice between letting Moriarty break and kill John, or leaving him behind in safety, he would leave.

He swallowed and knelt down on the floor beside the couch, leaning in and hiding his face against John's side. He didn't want to go.

The hands that came up around Sherlock's head and John's sudden intake of breath signaled his surprise. "Sherlock…" John whispered into the quiet air. A thread of fear had begun to coil inside him. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong and he didn't know what. And, of course irony would also have him enjoy Sherlock's sudden and unexpected expressiveness. He gave a shaky sigh and carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

The sensation was strange at first, to think that he could do this with _Sherlock_ of all people, but pleasant overall. The dark hair between his fingers was soft, tangled a bit, but most importantly it was Sherlock's. John felt his heart beating fast in his chest and he didn't know which he felt strongest, worry or…a painful kind of affection.

Sherlock made a sort of bitten-off cry and wrapped his arms around John as best he could, the angle and the couch making everything awkward. John knew something was wrong; Sherlock could hear it and smell it and he couldn't tell him what was going on. John would never let him leave if he knew, and somewhere along the line his flatmate had sunk roots into somewhere painful.

He couldn't let John get killed. Sherlock had looked at countless dead bodies, in person and in photographs, without feeling a twinge of anything but fascination, but the mental image of John trading places with any of those corpses made him feel like he'd been stabbed in something vital.

"Sherlock, please… _tell me_." John whispered so softly, the words came out as barely more than a breath. The unknown was tearing him up inside. _Seeing Sherlock like this_ was tearing him up inside. Was it the people Sherlock would see tonight, the people he'd cut ties with long ago? Or was it the bigger picture? Had the last two cases, and now these two bodies, been culminating into something that John couldn't see? He knew they were connected, he could see the individual pieces of a puzzle scattered about, but he could not see them fit together. He curled his body around Sherlock kneeling into him, wishing there was something, anything he could do.

The detective shuddered, unused to so much close physical contact from someone who was still warm, even if it was someone he trusted. It made him feel like a child all over again, Mycroft picking him up from a fall and cradling him until he felt well again.

Sherlock's arms tightened around John. "Can't let you die," he whispered, knowing John would misinterpret his words. It was the closest he could come to the truth.

John felt something in his throat catch. "I'm not…" He wasn't. What had happened? What had Sherlock so convinced that John was in danger? Sherlock was the one in danger. He had been targeted as the object of this madman's obsession, not John. Did he fear John would be killed like the officers in the Met? Did he fear John would be killed simply for knowing Sherlock? All the other deaths had been random, or people Sherlock had _disliked_. 

Sherlock just shook his head and held on tighter, only loosening his grip slightly when he noticed John's diaphragm was fighting for more air. If he told John what was happening, that he'd have to leave and _why_ , John would never let him. John would fight tooth and claw out of unshakable loyalty, even when angry with him, and Moriarty would break him without hesitation. Sherlock knew this, because he'd broken people who got in his way once upon a time.

"John, promise me."

"What? I won't die. I can take care of myself." John knew that was a pointless thing to say. Donovan could take care of herself. The other officers had been able to take care of themselves. But he had to say something to reassure Sherlock. He had to know that John was capable. He had to know that John would see this through at Sherlock's side, unafraid.

Sherlock wound the fingers of one hand in John's hair and pulled, shifting himself until he could lock eyes with his flatmate. Between the makeup and the raw look in Sherlock's eyes, he was doing more than his fair share at appearing completely mad.

"No matter what you think may happen to me, John. If I tell you to run, you will do it. _Promise me._ " Distress had contracted the muscles in his throat, turning his voice into a painful whisper. It was barely recognizable.

An icy shiver went down John's spine, and he knew there was something Sherlock wasn't telling him. He hesitated at the look in Sherlock's eyes. How could John leave if he were in danger? If Sherlock asked him to stay home now, how could he leave Sherlock to face this battle alone? But… there was that something that Sherlock wasn't telling him. Did it mean that Sherlock would be alright and John wouldn't? Did it mean that John really was the next target? Or was Sherlock going into something he didn't think he would come out of.

John's brows drew together. He looked pained. "Sherlock… How can I promise to leave you behind?"

"You may have to." Sherlock wouldn't even resist the impulse for revenge if John was deliberately murdered. The Met would never find all the pieces of the ones responsible. "I can't tell you why, not yet. But if you don't run when I tell you to, you may end up costing me my life, as well as your own."

John stared into Sherlock's eyes, trying to calm his own heart. His fingers found their way to the curls of Sherlock's hair again. Just the tips, tentatively reaching up behind Sherlock's ear. He tried to find the resolve within himself to do this. Sometimes one had to run in order to save themselves and not get their comrades killed as well. John had to believe Sherlock knew what he was doing. He swallowed, nodding. "Alright. Alright. …I promise."

Sherlock responded by pulling him close again, his breath leaving him in a relieved sigh even as his nerves continued to tingle with anxiety. It took a concerted effort to swallow everything down again, to bury the emotions somewhere deep and leave only detachment and logic behind. John's heartbeat was distracting but didn't make the task impossible.

Still, he didn't want to let go, even when some semblance of composure had been achieved again. Sherlock stroked the fine blond hair between his fingers and set to memorizing the color and texture so he'd have something to take with him, no matter what happened.

John was still as a breathing statue could be. It was amazing that he could feel his heart pounding in his chest because he felt like it had stopped. Sherlock had gotten the promise he wanted, and still he held John tightly. John didn't want to let go either. He felt raw inside. A tentative plan of action had been reached, and now he just wanted to feel this man's embrace… this amazing detective, who obviously had a heart deep down there somewhere. It showed through in the rarest of moments.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, his breath wafting over John's neck as he fought between his protective habit of avoiding human contact and his desire to record mementos of his only friend. He didn't know whether he'd get another chance. For all he knew, Moriarty could have orchestrated things so that he never came back after tonight.

It was with this thought in mind that he pushed John back onto the sofa, shoving him into the backrest until there was enough room for him to climb up into the empty space and lay next to him. It was a closeness he hadn't considered ever trying before the thought of impending loss forced his hand. Sherlock was surprised that it wasn't unpleasant. Awkward and different and uncomfortable in its newness, but not displeasing.

John felt himself flush. When Sherlock's hands had pressed him backward, he'd felt an alarm sound in the back of his mind, one that that drew upon memories of the familiar motions of past lovers. But then they just laid there. That, and only that, was what Sherlock seemed to want. John swallowed and found his composure again, enough to turn into Sherlock's side. He wasn't sure what this was. He wasn't sure what Sherlock wanted, nor how much or how little of it was wanted, but he had a feeling that just this much was okay.

John's body relaxed, and Sherlock took that as non-verbal permission to continue. He let his fingers trail over fabric and exposed skin, adding tactile data to visual, memorizing the outlines and what was in between. The touch wasn't sensual - more like an art student finally getting to touch a favorite, fragile Greek statue, all disbelief and wonder at the curves brought out of rough stone.

John's skin tingled wherever Sherlock's fingers moved. His heart rate increased. His breathing quickened. He let Sherlock continue, sensing that the touch was exploratory, but all the while that little voice in the back of his mind reminded him how close this was to something… more. And he liked it. He didn't want Sherlock to stop. Sherlock was wrapped all around him, and warm, and his fingers were like points of electric focus wherever they went. He lay still, boneless, wishing he could stay in this moment forever. 

Sherlock wasn't completely witless. There were many signs, so many little signs that John was enjoying this, and they were close enough that Sherlock could feel a solidifying heat beginning to press against his thigh. It didn't matter; John wouldn't try to push him further than he wanted to go. His chivalrous flatmate was caught between denial and self-sacrifice, and so Sherlock could explore until he wanted to withdraw and John would let him go.

But he didn't want to go. Sherlock was content to stay like this until the police came and it was time to hit the streets.

They remained that way, wrapped in one another on the couch, for a very long time. John didn't sleep. He could have, but it was too good. He didn't want to miss even the tiniest part of this moment. An hour, maybe two must have passed.

They didn't hear the knock on the door until it was truly night. The sun had gone down long ago, this time of year being better defined by short days and long stretches of darkness.

Sherlock's frame suddenly went tense underneath John's hands. He inhaled sharply and extracted himself from the tangle they'd made of their bodies, rolling off the sofa and standing. He gave John one last regretful glance before going to answer the door.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains an explicit underage scene. For those who wish to avoid it, check the notes at the bottom for details.

If Lestrade and his chosen officers were shocked at the makeup and the rumpled look to Sherlock's clothing, none of them commented about it. Sherlock deduced which of the bundles of clothing was for him, relieved the officer of it, and led them into the flat before breaking away from the group. He retreated to his bedroom to change.

John greeted Lestrade in the sitting room, looking a bit ruffled himself, mostly from fatigue. Lestrade might have looked at him a moment longer than was normal, but once again refrained from commenting.

"I want you to wear a wire," Lestrade began as John went through the clothing handed to him. Jeans, cap, white tank, dull grey jacket, all thoroughly worn. Lestrade showed him how to clip it underneath his clothing and then sent him to change in the bathroom. 

Sherlock stripped off his clothes mechanically and put on the outfit that had been brought for him. The bundle had turned out to contain distressed jeans, a grey tank and darker grey shirt that doubled as a hoodie, a battered pair of black sneakers, and a cheap imitation leather jacket. 

And the wire, of course.

Sherlock fiddled with it until he was certain it was properly concealed amongst the folds of his clothing. They were baggier than he was used to, but comfortable and wouldn't impede movement. Satisfied, Sherlock returned to the kitchen. He'd need to touch up the makeup before they left.

As soon as Sherlock returned, Lestrade went over the basics. "We'll keep our distance as much as we can. I'll need an address. If you switch locations, I'll need to know. We'll follow. The more you can get them to talk, the better. If something goes wrong, use the wire. We'll be right outside."

John joined them a minute later, looking very different in his new clothes. The neckline was much lower and the fit of everything was much looser than he usually wore. He felt like he was covered in grease stains, having spotted more than a few large ones on his jeans and jacket while slipping them on. Sherlock, however, looked far more unusual. John had never seen him in tattered clothes, and with the added makeup, he could have been a stranger. One who bore an eerie resemblance to the perfect, pristine Sherlock he knew.

Sherlock had merely nodded as Lestrade lectured him. It was all very basic, nothing that required his attention. He concentrated instead on fixing the damage that had been done to the makeup and refreshing the eyedrops that kept his pupils dilated. "Yes, understood," he muttered at Greg as the man continued to prattle. He crossed the room to the box on top of the fireplace, applying a few of the nicotine patches and rolling his sleeves back down.

He turned at the sound of John entering the room. John looked... different. Much less of his mild-mannered self, more like the sort of man one would run into at one of London's seedier bars, although the faintly worried air that clung to him destroyed a bit of the illusion. That wouldn't matter where they were going, though; John's nervousness would only add to the authenticity there.

John was staring at him and Sherlock smirked. His entire body language changed as he got into character, his posture curling into something more predatory as he drew on his hazy memories of the time he'd spent on the street. Sherlock eyed his flatmate with a manic look that was all glittering pupil and a thin rim of ice, teeth bared in a half-moon grin, slinking across the room to see if he could cause John to back away.

It worked.

Between the strangely innocent advances Sherlock made on the couch and the bold, loose limbed, predatory advance he was making now, John was out of his depth. His eyes went wide when Sherlock moved into his personal space. Color instantly flushed his cheeks as he was still aware of Lestrade in the room and the other officers in the outer hall. That did not mean he was any less preoccupied with Sherlock, however. He stepped back, bumping the backs of his legs against the coffee table he'd forgotten about.

Sherlock actually _cackled_ , breaking character as he slumped over in laughter. The expression on John's face had been _priceless_. "Well, we don't have to worry about your acting skills," Sherlock murmured in good humor as he straightened up into something like his normal posture. "You shouldn't actually run away from me when we're on the street, though. I'm going to have to act the part, but you're going to have to put up with it and stay close. The people we'll be seeing are far more likely to try to hurt you or get you to do something if we get separated."

John was pink in the face now, both flustered and embarrassed. He nodded, trying to look composed and annoyed that Sherlock was laughing at him.

Lestrade cleared his throat from the doorway, looking a bit uncomfortable himself. "Whenever you're ready." He looked like he'd just watched something intimate between the two residents of 221b. It was strange, seeing John and Sherlock like this. It was equally strange seeing Sherlock slipping into a persona Greg hadn't seen in a long time.

For Sherlock, it was like trying on an old shirt and finding, despite the passage of time and all the dust and wrinkles, that the garment still fit. His expression turned dark and arrogant as he fixed his attention on Lestrade. "Let's go, then. I trust you know what neighborhood to drop us in. I'll find the way from there."

Sherlock pocketed a few essentials - wallet, magnifier, penlight, lockpicks. "Don't follow too closely. I haven't seen any of these people in a while. They'll be paranoid and looking for suspicious behavior, so don't give them anything to spot."

Lestrade's brows drew together, frustrated at not getting an address. "Fine. We'll back off." He remembered these days, arguing with a haughty, reckless Sherlock. Then again, now that he thought about it, not all that much had changed. Greg shook his head and decided it was the clothes and the unhealthy look about him. "Just make sure that we see you if you move."

Once they double checked they had everything that was needed, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade's small team of police left the flat, some wondering whether all would return.

They'd commandeered a cab to drop Sherlock and John. Lestrade took the wheel. Sherlock's contacts had operated across a wide spread of London back in the day, but Lestrade took them to the neighborhood the two ODs had been found. It was their own territory, and so it was unlikely that Sherlock would be moved to another. If he did, it would be incredibly difficult to follow him without being seen.

They rode in silence, Sherlock utterly preoccupied as he sorted through stored memories to draw up the names, faces, and territorial boundaries that he remembered. It had been a while, so he didn't doubt that things would have shifted in the intermittent period.

He reached out and grabbed John's hand as Lestrade pulled over, giving it a brief squeeze before he opened the cap door. "Remember, distance. We'll call you in if something goes wrong."

"Right," Lestrade sighed. "Good luck out there."

They stepped out of the cab and Lestrade drove away, leaving them in a lonely lamplit street just west of Peckham. Not very far from the chainsaw murder that had started the whole thing. John let out a breath, visible in the night air. It was getting chillier. He looked to Sherlock, finding a startlingly different man in his place. The shadows in his face had changed, become more pronounced and even further accentuated by the single yellow light of the street.

John steeled himself for what was to come. "Where to then?"

Sherlock grinned, sharklike and strange, beckoning for John to follow him. "Stay close." He began to lead them down the back alleys and side streets despite Greg's admonition to stay in sight; none of his old haunts were viewable and accessible from major traffic routes.

After a few minutes of walking Sherlock turned suddenly on a small boy that had been passing them, grabbing the kid's wrist and flipping him around until the boy was facing the other way. He clamped one hand over the child's mouth, muffling the startled cry as he dragged him into a dark archway.

"Sherlock!" John hissed. His heart leapt to his throat when he saw the two disappear. He stood in the alley, looking this way and that, completely thrown. No one else was around to notice what had transpired.

Sherlock settled into a crouch so that he was at the boy's eye level, completely ignoring John's protests. The boy went still as soon as he had a good look at Sherlock, going pale with fear.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Sherlock dropped the manic act, although he was certain it didn't help his appearance much. "I'm not going to turn you in for the botched pickpocketing either. I'm going to remove my hand so you can speak, and then we'll talk, and _only_ talk, and then I'll let you go. Nod if you understand."

The boy nodded quickly, eyes still wide. Sherlock paused a moment, then unclamped his hand from the kid's mouth, keeping the other firmly on his captive's wrist. "Now, do you know how I caught you pickpocketing? No, no, don't be afraid. It's a question; I'm not going to hit you. How did I catch you?"

John hesitantly took a step closer, forcibly unfreezing himself from the spot he'd been rooted to. He'd gone into a kind of panic at the vision of this crazed Sherlock snatching a lone boy out of the alley, one John hadn't even noticed until it had happened. Heart still thumping wildly in his chest, he watched in stunned silence.

"...I-...I d-dunno," the kid sheepishly admitted, still watching Sherlock like he thought the dark-haired man would try to bite him. Junkies weren't known to be predictable about anything but their addictions.

"Look at my pockets. See the seams, the place where the zippers are sewn in? It's a small bit of extra fabric, but it can catch on an object and your target will feel the tug. You also have to be careful how _much_ you're lifting at a time. Something too heavy, and you'll be noticed." Sherlock hefted his wallet in his free hand, waiting for the kid's eyes to return to his.

"If you're going to keep picking, I recommend practicing with your mates. You've got mates, right?" He prompted, waiting for the boy to nod. "Get a bunch of objects, different weights and shapes. Practice stealing junk from each other. Pay attention to each time one of you catches the other, what it was that they noticed. Better yet, get used to switching out one object for another. You can pick a heavier wallet that way by swapping it with something equally heavy. Look at how low someone's pocket is hanging and you can start to guess what you need to switch it with."

"Now," Sherlock said, flipping open his wallet so the kid could see the pound notes within. "What are you stealing _for_? Someone else, or yourself? Drugs or food?" It was unlikely the kid was stealing for drugs, unless he had a handler who was collecting his daily take.

Sherlock, bent low, with dark, wide blown eyes, in front of an anxious child barely half his size in a dark doorway…explaining the art of pickpocketing was perhaps one of the strangest things John could remember seeing. He moved back now that he'd calmed, afraid that their combined presence would only make the boy uncomfortable.

"Just fer me. Ain't no one else," the kid finally replied, shifting uneasily. He knew John was there and wasn't happy he couldn't keep an eye on both of them at once.

"You're sleeping on the streets as well, from the look of you, and haven't eaten for two days." Sherlock ignored the question in the boy's eyes, the look he saw so often that was equal parts impressed and fearful that he knew. "D'you know St. Mungos?"

Sherlock sighed when the boy shook his head. "Alright." Reaching inside his jacket, Sherlock tapped the wire. "Lestrade. Can you get an officer over here to take someone to St. Mungo's shelter at Guildford Street? We're right by Cossall Park."

While he waited for a reply, Sherlock dug a couple of pound notes out of his wallet, all of them in large denominations. "You're going to hide these on you. Don't tell anyone you have them, understand? You use it for what you need."

The officer arrived shortly. He came around the corner, looking ready for anything but Sherlock and John sitting in a darkened alley with a small child. He approached slowly, but the hand near his baton dropped to his side. "What's happened?"

"Homeless kid." Sherlock's attention was still on the boy, who'd taken the offered notes and stuffed them under his waistband. "He's not here to arrest you. He's going to take you to a shelter. They'll give you a bed, and food, and it will be warm. You won't have to worry about the rain. They'll help you, and they won't make you do anything for it. All you have to do is go with this officer. Now, I'm going to let go of your wrist, and you can decide what you want to do."

Sherlock released him. The kid blinked rapidly, glancing from Sherlock to John to the policeman who'd just joined them. It was obvious he didn't quite know whether this was a trick or not, but after a moment's hesitation he stepped away and walked up to the officer. "'e says ye've got a bed? An' food? No tricks?"

The officer, though surprised, caught on quickly. "No tricks. You'll be safe." His face softened disarmingly. The situation clearly struck him. On many, many occasions, the career of a policeman wasn't worth it. Sometimes, in rare moments such as this, it was. He held out his hand.

Sherlock watched them go, slowly standing up from his crouch and pocketing his wallet. He stepped out of the archway to rejoin John. "Let's go. He'll be taken care of," he murmured.

John looked at the man standing next to him, trying to fathom what was going through Sherlock's mind. He couldn't believe that had just happened. Not on their way to meet with the narcotics dealers of south London, on the trail of a much bigger mystery. Sherlock was always so single minded on cases. …until today, or until that boy?

They fell into step together. "That was a nice thing you did." John knew the words sounded trite. He didn't care.

"I've seen what happens to kids of that age, when they're on the streets alone. If they don't have relatives with them, they tend to end up with a handler who makes them steal money for drugs, being the property of a trafficker and forced into the sex trade, or arrested and put in detention only to become a professional criminal later in life." Sherlock ticked off the possibilities as they walked. "Or they die. He simply tried to pick the right pocket and won against the odds."

John felt like the world was tiling. Sherlock's statements were too blunt for his taste. John wanted to stop and ask how he'd seen this, what his life had been back then, because he got the feeling that Sherlock didn't just mean he'd seen it peripherally. But, they were here for a reason and their time was limited. John swallowed. "Did you see a lot of them?"

"More than you probably want to know about." They turned another corner, moving deeper into the heart of the slums. They were surrounded by dilapidated flat blocks and run-down shop fronts now. The pavement itself almost seemed darker, as if the streetlights were sparser and giving off less light. He watched John out of the corner of his eye, wondering just how much he could stand to hear. "I remember them always being hungry. All of them. I used to sell to them at a discount, when they were sent to buy for someone else, so they could pocket the extra and buy something to eat."

John's frown deepened. He nodded, not knowing what else could be said.

It was hard to imagine, a Sherlock like that, in a world like that. A world that was not so very far from his own, juxtaposed right on top of it although he had never glimpsed it before. It was uncommon for him to simply see a child _alone_. Not in London. Not in England. In the towns he'd moved through in Afghanistan, the kids went everywhere. They could be seen in groups, alone, running errands for their parents, anything. Most of the time, before it had gotten bad…before he'd been shot, he'd been treating simple cases, things like athlete's foot, and just trying not to run them over. What did that say, then, that for all of the English's staunch paranoia, that there was still nothing they could do?

The night was too cold, too oppressive surrounded by neglected buildings on all sides. Even the sky above them felt too close. There were no stars, only the city lights.

Sherlock rounded another corner and walked towards what appeared to be the back delivery door for a ground level shop. A man leaning against the wall perked up at their approach, shuffling sideways until he was in the detective's way. "Jus' where d'ye think yer goin'?"

Sherlock got right up in the man's personal space, grinning at the watchman's surprised grunt and the way his hands came up at the last minute to stop him. "Need supplies. I'm running low, and I brought new blood. I thought Andy'd be interested." His words were rapidfire, the sped-up speech of a stimulants junkie.

"I ain't seen you around before," the guard muttered, raising an eyebrow as he glanced between Sherlock and John.

"I've been out of the loop awhile. Tried other guys, all of them were cutting the merch with too much shit." The guard wasn't reacting fast enough. Sherlock sighed and launched forward, forcing the man backwards in a careless show of aggression until his back hit the wall. "Listen, _I need. My. Hit._ This is only gonna last another hour, tops. I've got money to pay, so are you gonna let us through, or do we gotta go down the street and buy from someone else? Andy's not going to like hearing that you lost him sales."

John couldn't help the flinch when Sherlock snapped. Suddenly, he was _manic_. And, John had realized he was tall before, but he hadn't quite realized Sherlock knew how to use it to his advantage for any other reason than sticking his nose in the air. He shifted from one foot to the other, trying to look annoyed but probably coming off more nervous than otherwise.

The guard tried to grapple with Sherlock, only for the taller man to shift sideways almost too quickly to follow. His hands snatched at a pivot point and suddenly the guard was on the ground, yelping as Sherlock knelt on his back and wrenched his arm behind him with a feral grin. " _Fuck_. Ok, ok, you can go in. _Jeezus_ , just lemme go."

"John, come." Sherlock beckoned him forward, inclining his head towards the doorway. He let go of the watchman's arm and stood.

Keeping wary eyes on the man on the ground, John stepped over his legs. The detective was full of surprises tonight. 

John was feeling bolder now that they were reaching the point of action. Left with only two options, either play through their plan, or possibly die, he was left with little time to worry. With that thought in mind he followed Sherlock inside

Sherlock tried to look everywhere at once while appearing to not be looking at all. This old territory had been made new again through the passage of time and they'd not had the time or means to scout the location. The air was full of the scent of stale sweat, cigarettes, alcohol and vomit, and underneath it all the powdery, metallic scent of detergent and chemicals. John was breathing faster than normal with adrenaline and fear and everything was just so _exciting_.

They passed a couple of young junkies huddled in a corner and sharing a pipe. Sherlock took them down a stairwell and into the basement, wondering too late whether the concrete would cut off the wire transmission.

It reminded John of the old abandoned factories he and his friends searched out to explore when he was still in grade school. Besides the smell, that was. Apart from whatever they needed for temporary setups, the place was not well kept. Tables and chairs and ratty old sofas were positioned in haphazard groups. It looked like they sometimes used the space just to pass the time, judging from the snacks and gaming console. The basement, however, was probably where the real business took place.

The basement was essentially a long hallway with doors lining either side. The quiet, hissing sound of a bunsen burner could be heard from behind one of the doors as they passed by. The door at the end opened up into a much larger meeting room with a long table at the center. A rather plain-looking man with mousy brown hair was sitting at the head, flanked by a couple of thugs serving as bodyguards.

Andy glanced up as they entered, surprise and no small amount of fear filling his eyes before he managed to neutralize his expression. One of the guards made to intercept them but Andy tugged on his arm, whispering something in his ear. The thug nodded and stepped aside, moving around Sherlock and John and exiting into the hallway.

"Andy," Sherlock purred, striding up to the table and eying the dealer fondly. "You still deal cocaine? I'm running low, and I brought a friend who's looking to do a little experimenting."

"Sherlock! I can't believe it's you…. It's really you," the man named Andy exclaimed in a voice higher than John expected. He turned pale hazel eyes on John, sizing him up and from his expression deciding he wasn't a threat. "Ahh," Andy hedged before he answered. "I heard you were some kind of detective now….is that not right?"

It was strange that Andy showed subtle signs of distress, although he had been out of Sherlock's sphere of communication for so long that it could be warranted.. Perhaps it was Sherlock's status as a consulting detective. With a little more conversation, Sherlock would be able to work the source out of him, and he was probably aware of it.

"No, that's right, but not why we're here," Sherlock admitted, taking a seat opposite Andy so as not to tower over the man and make him feel more threatened than he already felt. "I only get tapped to consult on homicide cases, not drug trafficking. This isn't work, this is personal business. I'm back in the market and I've been disappointed with the product some of the other dealers are pushing. I remembered yours always being a bit more quality and thought I'd see what you have to offer, since I'm not producing anymore."

Nervous fingers skittered across the table, finding a pencil to give them something to do and then setting it aside after Andy realized the motion would only make him seem more anxious. "In that case, you've come to the right place," he said with an oily smile. It looked practiced, and it must have been since it was the only expression he'd managed to pull off without fear.

It looked like they'd been going over some kind of business before Sherlock and John walked in. A notebook of records and a few other papers were spread out in stacks. Andy's mobile sitting beside them buzzed, but he silenced it.

"I remember your tastes…but," He looked to John, "is your friend here interested in the same?"

John's eyes darted to Sherlock, then back to Andy.

Sherlock had been trying to read the records, but he was having a damned time of it attempting to read upside down while Andy was watching him like he was a poisonous viper. Sherlock turned to look at John, then shrugged. "He was curious what I was into, but I think the most he's tried before this is pot. We shouldn't start him off with anything too hard - it's bad for business to have customers OD during their first few weeks."

Andy was profoundly afraid, more than he should have been, even if he suspected Sherlock was working undercover for the Met. His skin had a fine sheen to it and his racing pulse was clearly visible all the way across the table, as were his nervous tics and trembling muscles. "You're scared, Andy. Why? I've already told you, I'm not here on detective work."

Andy's eyes shot from Sherlock to John and back to Sherlock, his back rigid, his lips tight. The silent man at his side tensed. Andy picked up the pencil again, slowly, irrationally clutching it in his hand like he could use it to defend himself. It seemed as though he were waiting for something, because he didn't try to answer Sherlock's question.

And then it came. The door to the basement burst open and heavy footfalls charged down the hall. John was spinning on his heel the moment he heard them, but then no less than four men rushed into the room, guns drawn and pointed at Sherlock. Andy was out of his chair in a flash, the guard beside him pushing him back and around the table to stand by his comrades and clear of their line of fire.

Sherlock stood, eyes wide with surprise as he raised his hands in the air in the universal sign of surrender. "Andy, what is this?" he demanded, keeping his eyes on the guns instead of the dealer. "Do you seriously feel that threatened, that you have to call in four gunmen to keep an eye on an old customer and a new client?"

Of course. _Of course_. Word had gotten around about the overdoses, which meant that other dealers would be jumpy. Still, this seemed like overkill.

"Shut up, Sherlock," Andy hissed in a breath. His voice was gaining confidence. "You think we haven't caught on yet?" He raised his eyebrows in a show of courage, but he still kept his men between himself and Sherlock. "When the north side got hit, we had no idea, but Jerry made it out alive. You remember him, yeah? He came back with a real funny story, didn't he? Or didn't you know? Said before the shooting started he saw that _real familiar_ mop of yours, and that was nearly the _last_ thing he saw." Andy paused for breath, looking wild. Some of the men with guns were nodding, too. Not all of them worked for Andy. Two faces were from that crowd, Jerry's crowd. The other two…might have been from East Peckham. They all had a triumphant look about them, though still wary.

"It's funny," Andy continued, "Ever since then we've been _hearing things_. Know how their stash disappeared after the lot of them were cleared off? Yeah? Well that's been happening to a lot of people. Not just that either, chemicals of ALL sorts, but nobody can figure why. And all anybody ever gets is a glimpse of _you_." Finally he smiled. He must have gained his bearings by now, seeing the surprise in Sherlock's face. "So tell me, is that what you came to do to me? Hm? After we've been _such good pals_?"

Sherlock dropped the act; it wouldn't serve any further purpose to hide behind pretenses. "I came to find out why Scott and Caleb died. They were too smart to overdose on their own product."

Sherlock was cursing himself internally for not taking better precautions. He'd known that he'd be walking into something dangerous orchestrated by Moriarty, but he hadn't counted on being framed on both sides of the equation. "I don't even have a weapon on me, Andy. You can have your men check. Do you really think I'd walk in unarmed if my intentions had been to attack you?"

"Oh _really?_ Then who's he?" Andy shouted and made a jerking motion at John. John didn't flinch. "Get him out of here. I don't want them in the same room together."

Andy's guard and one of the men holding a gun on Sherlock jumped at John. He was grabbed on both sides and though he struggled and tried to pull his arms free, he couldn't manage. The other two rushed forward, guns steady on Sherlock to push him back while John was dragged down the hall. "Sherlock!" his voice echoed from the other side. 

Sherlock drew a shaky breath; he'd have to trust John to take care of himself for a bit. He wouldn't be able to help him until he neutralized the guns pointed at his own head. "You must really not follow the media. He's my PA. I told you, I only investigate homicides anymore, and the suspicious deaths of two old acquaintances qualifies."

 

He eyed the remaining three enforcers, all of whom still had their guns aimed at him. "Come check me for weapons if you're really that concerned. I'd rather not be gunned down because of someone's nervous trigger finger."

Andy glanced over Sherlock, thinking. "Do it." He picked up a briefcase that had been sitting at his feet and opened it on the table while one of the gunmen came up behind Sherlock to begin patting him down. Andy picked out a mobile phone, which was unusual because he had his own on him already, and punched something into it. "Doesn't matter how innocent you look coming in here. You're not leaving. _You don't fuck us over_."

Sherlock exhaled slowly, focusing on what was to come. There was nothing for it. Moriarty had said he wanted another demonstration, and he'd engineered a situation where Sherlock had little choice but to comply... or be killed. He couldn't think of what was happening to John right now. He had to look at spaces and angles and positions and how the guard's hand was coming up... and _move_.

Sherlock's knees bent unexpectedly, confusing the guard that had been reaching for a higher target. Sherlock snatched the man's gun and pushed him off-balanced in a split second, rolling to avoid the muzzles of guns that were trying to track him for a good shot. He raised his stolen firearm and fired twice, still moving as he shot - one guard fell against the wall with a grunt, leaving a crimson streak as he slid to the floor. Three more shots and the other two guards were down.

Which left Andy and his phone. Sherlock strafed around the table, keeping an eye on the doorway while he aimed at the dealer. "Phone down, now."

Andy's hands shook as they set the mobile on the table. He didn't move another muscle, until he started shaking all over. He swallowed. "Y-you can take whatever you want. All of it. I don't care." It was a fair attempt at keeping his voice steady, but it trembled at the end. He knew the last thing he'd done was imply he was about to take Sherlock's life. He was praying the other man wouldn't do the same. 

"Who were you calling?" Sherlock reached over and picked up the phone. The screen showed Caleb's old number, which only meant that someone else had snatched up his phone after he died. Sherlock had a good guess as to whom.

He froze, staring at Andy as he tried to calculate all the probabilities, all the different outcomes. Andy had just seen him easily go from unarmed to gunning down trained enforcers. It would only solidify the man's theory that he was behind the murders of the other dealers. He would testify, in recorded statements and in court, especially to save his own skin from drug charges. He'd have to enlist his brother's aid when this all came to an end, but evidence vanished more easily and completely when there was no one to voice opposition.

He had no time. The Met would be coming and closing off the building and he had to be gone before then. Sherlock closed his eyes and pulled the trigger, ignoring the gurgle that followed. He snatched the briefcase back before the corpse slumped forward to stain it further. He pocketed Andy's mobile and a few spare magazines from the fallen guards and fled down the hallway.

John had been taken upstairs, unharmed, but he'd been shouting for Sherlock the whole time. Unfortunately, the basement had cut off the signal to the wire they wore after all. Fortunately, as soon as John was dragged past the concrete barrier, Lestrade had heard him.

The police kicked down the back door and spilled into the room they'd first come through, which John now thought of as the "lounge". The few buyers and Andy's employees scattered. The two men holding John hadn't stood a chance and they knew it as Lestrade and his team closed in around them. They gave up John and went willingly into handcuffs.

As soon as he was free, John ran for the stairs. 

Sherlock had bypassed the ground floor entirely, climbing up the stairwell to the third floor. He could hear the sound of the police behind him, shouts and heavy footsteps running, John calling for him from somewhere down the hallway. Sherlock spotted the door that led to the roof and ran for it. The ground was still too risky.

The detective shouldered the metal portal aside and dashed across the rooftop. With the buildings so close together, it wasn't difficult to make the leap to the next building, or the one after. Sherlock tore out the wire as he ran, dropping it down the gap during one of his jumps.

John followed up the stairwell, catching only glimpses of a dark figure and the shine of a cheap leather jacket. He stumbled through the open door and skidded to a halt, looking about wildly for his friend. " _Sherlock!_ " John's shout rang into the distance, echoing faintly off the dark rooftops around him.

The detective was nowhere to be seen.

Not a moment later did the officers come bursting out onto the roof, Lestrade at their heels. "Where'd he go?" one of them shouted at John, who could only turn wide, pleading eyes to Lestrade.

"John, what happened? There are four men dead in the basement," Lestrade asked walking up to him.

John's eyes widened, but he shook his head. "They thought Sherlock was there to take them out. They must have…they must have attacked him." _And he ran._

"And why the hell would they think that?" Lestrade demanded.

John paled. "They said it's been happening all over. Dead dealers, their product stolen," he said quietly, wondering if now was about the time he should really shut up.

Lestrade took John down from the roof, announcing that they'd set a search out for him from the yard, but they were not about to go chasing over rooftops. They didn't have the people, and…against an instinctive little voice in the back of his head, Lestrade decided not to send out a helicopter. For all he knew, those four, _four?_ bodies in the basement had been self-defense. Even though Sherlock was running. He called in for a search team to head after Sherlock. He needed to find the man and get this sorted out.

"What the _fuck_ is he thinking?" he growled.

John, sitting in the passenger seat of Lestrade's car and staring out the window, looked very unlike the greasy character he was supposed to play, not with worry written all over his face. "I don't know," he answered quietly.

* * *

Sherlock worked his way down a fire escape a safe distance away, gritting his teeth at the squeal of the rusty metal as it accommodated his weight. His feet finally touched ground and he took off, scouring the street for an open cab. He kept his head down to minimize the alarm his makeup would cause, putting on an act of drunkenness until a vehicle finally pulled over. He handed over an extra note with the address to encourage the driver to make good time, then sat back as the cab started off for Baker Street.

In the meantime, Sherlock examined the briefcase. It yielded more frustration; painted on the inside of the case was **FHPD**. Another code to add to his collection.

Sherlock snapped the case shut and spent the rest of the ride in tense contemplation. The cabbie was speeding as much as he could get away with, but Sherlock knew he still wouldn't have much time to get everything he needed and disappear.

When he was finally dropped at the door he handed the driver a couple of notes and ran without waiting for the change. The next few minutes were a whirlwind of movement. A bag was snatched from his room, a change of clothes stuffed in. His laptop was packed, as were the nicotine patches and a few other essentials. The hiding places were all ripped open, the guns extracted and stuffed into a secondary bag destined for disposal. He'd snatched one of John's sweaters on impulse when removing the gun from his room - it got put in his essentials bag.

He washed his face quickly and changed clothing, dressing in layers. The silhouette of his normal coat and scarf would be too recognizable. He'd have to buy another at some point. Sherlock stuffed the police-issued clothing into the disposal bag and then grabbed both bags and the briefcase. He was back on the street in a matter of minutes.

Sherlock had decided to risk another cab. It seemed less dangerous than the many eyes public transport would bring, and his destination was too far to walk to. He needed to be close enough to Scotland Yard to bring them the necessary evidence when he got it, yet not so close that he'd be easily spotted and caught.

The cab dropped him off south of the river - a shady enough area to disappear into, yet not too distant from Met headquarters in Westminster. Sherlock thanked the cabbie and set about finding a spot to hole up and, hopefully, tap into a wifi signal.

He opened his own phone and reluctantly disassembled the pieces, saving a few and tossing the rest into the river. Sherlock didn't need Lestrade tracking him by his mobile.

* * *

Across town, John and the DI let the other officers canvass the area while they drove back to Baker Street with only a small team. John didn't have any other ideas on where Sherlock would go, and if he did, he wasn't sure he should speak up. Lestrade was confused, frustrated, and starting to get very angry at being left in the dark.

John couldn't help. All he could do was come along for the ride and _hope_ they got Sherlock back. John thought he must have run because of the men he'd shot…who were about to kill the two of them…but what if there had been more to it than that? What if they'd said something else that had caused him to run? Had Sherlock seen this coming? John had to bite back his own anxiety as they pulled up to the flat on Baker Street.

In no time they were out of the car and running up the steps.

They found the flat empty. They'd missed him.

Mrs. Hudson confirmed this when she said she'd heard quite a racket only several minutes ago and had just assumed they were up to their usual antics. Things in the flat had been taken, notably Sherlock's laptop and a few of his belongings. John silently noticed the hidden compartments housing the guns had been opened, and he couldn't fight the sinking feeling in his gut.

Fortunately, Lestrade didn't notice the partially obscured cubby holes along with all the mess. He turned to John. "I want you to make a list of everything he's taken, and bring it back to me. We need to figure out if he's on the run for good or not."

John nodded gravely. "…they said they would kill us." He had to make that clear. "It was self-defense."

Lestrade rubbed at his eyes. "I believe that, I do. But we have to find out _why_." With that, Lestrade left to coordinate the search, and John was left alone among the piles of Sherlock's discarded objects.

John walked through the flat feeling like it had been turned inside out. Truthfully, most of the mess had already been there. Sherlock hadn't made much more of a disturbance. He must have known what he was going for, or had need of very few essentials to leave. John found his heart sinking lower and lower the more he looked. He sat on the couch for a long time, just staring into space. Something unexpected must have happened. It was the only thing he could think of… for Sherlock to leave him like that.

* * *

After a bit of searching and a small amount of lock picking, Sherlock managed to find an empty flat that had both working power and a careless neighbor with unlocked wifi. He set up his laptop and got to work.

One word document held each piece of the code they'd recovered thus far: NDTAJUAW XQHJMI and now, written on the inside of the briefcase, FHPD. Sherlock stared at the string of letters, frowning as he flipped open the mobile he'd stolen from Andy. If he couldn't decipher the code, perhaps there would be something left on the phone that would tell him what chemicals had been stolen.

The detective found something better. Amongst the undeleted text messages was a note from Caleb's phone: AVGWQQWJ TIBCTK SZCZ. Three sets, with precisely the same number of letters and type of spacing as each component of the code that had been left for him thus far. Sherlock dropped the new letters into the word document and steepled his fingers in thought.

After some time he dug through his bag and extracted the DVD he'd been given by Richard Brook at the start of all of this. He popped the disc into the drive and brought up the encryption program he'd snagged from the studio editing computers. After a few moments and a few well-considered Google searches, he had a reasonable guess as to what type of encryption he was dealing with.

Working with the code pieces he'd been left at the various crime scenes, Sherlock treated the portion that had been left on the mobile phone as a key. The guess worked; the code had been encrypted using a one-time-pad method in order to defy early decryption. A combination of the two portions using a single algorithm based on the length of the alphabet, a number corresponding to the position the encrypted letters held in the alphabet minus the number of the position of the letters in the key – with A being 0 and allowing for higher numbers with another pass around the alphabet, yielded the phrase _nineteen eighty nine_.

Sherlock hesitated, then clicked the encryption program. He selected the DVD video as the source and typed the decoded phrase into the text box underneath, then hit enter.

The screen went dark. For a moment it looked like the computer had shut down, but its fan was still running. Then sound came. The laughter of a boy, one with a familiar voice. 

Jake.

A picture jumped into focus. As though it were taken from an old time reel, it was spotty and had a dull monochrome tint to it, but the scene became clear enough soon: blue water, perfectly still, unmistakable as an olympic sized swimming pool from the black lane lines deep beneath the surface. Movement to the left of the frame, the camera swung to catch it, but the dark figure darted out of the frame just in time. It swung again, catching a very familiar billowing coat dashing along the edge of the pool. A mop of black hair and a dark scarf flew out behind him, but it wasn't Sherlock. It was Jake. He was playing Sherlock.

The boy bent down on his knees and peered over the ledge, cool grey eyes scanning for something. A door creaked, echoing across the empty space, and on the far side of the pool another figure entered. It might have been Richard Brook, but it _wasn't_. Slender legs in a dark suit above slick shined shoes stepped out of the dark hall. A narrow waist, a tailored jacket, a glinting tie clip, all of it ended in sharp smiling teeth and glittering eyes. 

The screen jittered and fizzled into another image, cutting from the pool entirely. This time it was Rich, as simply Richard Brook against a plain backdrop and nothing else. He looked very excited. "Welcome, Sherlock!" he cried out in a falsetto tone as though he really were speaking to a child. "So you've managed to solve the puzzle, have you? I'm _impressed_ , I truly am. Knowing what it took to get you here." He winked conspiratorially. "Are you ready for your reward? Because this is where the magician reveals all. And I think you deserve it now. Our story. Because you started it, all those years ago, and you didn't even know it…"

Richard's face faded back to the scene at the pool. A gloved hand trailed along the railing of the walkway, footsteps taking those shining shoes ever closer to the boy at the ledge. The young Sherlock rose to his feet, head down, eyes up, staring into the camera with a cool confidence.

"In 1989, a young boy by the name of Carl Powers died in a tragic accident at this very pool.,” Richard’s words sounded in voiceover. “His death made headlines. Freak Drowning of a Champion Swimmer. The police ruled it an accident, but one boy, _one lone boy_ by the name of Sherlock Holmes didn't believe them." 

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise. He'd guessed from Moriarty's earlier comments that they'd crossed paths when he was younger - there was no other inference to be made, really, given the remark about Jake's age - but Sherlock had already made the leap of logic as to where this was going.

They'd first brushed past each other due to Carl's death. He finally had a name to put to the murderer who'd stolen Carl's beloved shoes.

Soft leather fingers trailed over the young Sherlock's cheek. Rich’s gaze did not soften, his eyes did not blink. "Though the death would never be solved, this one boy was the only person to ever see through the perfect crime." When he spoke then, it was as Jim Moriarty. He stood over Sherlock with only one point of contact between them. The boy was barely as tall as his chest, but defiantly unafraid. "Mine." Jim raised a brow and bent down, lowering himself to one knee.

The little Sherlock smirked. "Caught you." His voice, soft as it was, echoed across the walls.

"You had me at murder, dear Sherlock," Richard's ethereal voice intoned over the video. "From then on, I was fascinated…."

The scene switched suddenly. Close up. They were in another room, darker, smaller. Closed and more intimate. Sherlock's eyes, his fluttering lashes, nose, mouth, open. His scarf was sliding down his neck as hands, ungloved, caressed his skin.

Young Sherlock arched slightly as bare hands paused, tracing a tender line across his throat before they drew the scarf away and let it fall to the ground. Fingertips ghosted over his parted lips as the other hand dipped beneath his coat collar, drawing it down until the boy's arms were trapped. Sherlock jerked once, twice, and the coat joined the scarf on the floor, leaving a youthful figure starkly illuminated by the room's warm light. "Who are you?" the boy whispered, trusting eyes turning up to the figure standing over him.

Sherlock's own gaze was glued to the laptop screen, fingers laced together and clamped over his mouth to keep any sound from escaping. He rocked back and forth as he sat, cross-legged, oblivious to everything but the message Moriarty wanted to send him.

"I'm your villain, darling." Moriarty whispered, leaning down, saying the words into Sherlock's mouth. His tongue licked out, breaching the last bit of air between them. It swiped over the boy's lower lip before Jim's teeth followed, nipping, pulling. Not enough to cause injury, but the boy cried out into what became an open mouthed kiss a moment later.

Moriarty sank down behind the small Sherlock’s body with the discarded coat trapped between them. The young boy had to twist his head back to meet Jim, allowing his tender neck to be exposed. Jim's fingers ran down his small chest. His bare skin must have been every bit as soft as the light made it seem. Another hand fisted in curls of black hair. Jim shifted and folded his legs underneath him on either side of the boy, a trap that needed no other barrier to hold its prey. His palm grazed down young Sherlock's bare stomach, and lower still.

The boy didn't look distressed at the sudden turnabout. On the contrary, he seemed enthralled, hypnotized by Moriarty’s predatory gaze and possessive actions. The boy's visible pulse was rapid, but he was turning into the hands that explored his skin and the teeth that stopped just short of leaving lasting marks. A tremor ran up his small frame as a much larger hand found its mark beneath his trousers.

The real Sherlock was barely breathing.

The figures in the video were moving together now. Moriarty's hand jerked in slow motions that quickened rapidly. Little Sherlock's lower body pushed back into Jim's lap, rubbing himself forward and back in time with the pace. They were both gasping. Jim's mouth moved to the boy's neck, kissing lower and lower until he bit at the juncture of clavicle and shoulder, causing a spike of movement between them. Jim rocked forward into the small body. Though still fully clothed, Jim's motion was explicit. His arm wrapped around Sherlock's narrow hips from the front, pulling the boy into him at the same time he pressed them forward.

The camera caught the young boy's lips again, then his eyes as he dropped his head, framed close up to get the best view of his pleasure. 

Sherlock didn't know what to think. Here was confirmation of the odd relationship between Richard and Jake at the studio, painted out in vivid detail beyond what he'd been expecting. The boy didn't look distressed, but that didn't mean he hadn't been gradually groomed towards the situation.

What was clear was that the child was a victim in more ways than one: he was obviously a substitute. Jim Moriarty had gained a fixation on him in their youth that had never gone away, so much that he'd searched out a child doppelganger with whom to enact his fantasies. Jake would likely be discarded as soon as he was able to obtain the real object of his desire.

Moriarty wanted to possess him, one way or another, and was willing to rain down destruction if he didn't get his wish. 

Sherlock couldn't recall ever feeling so hunted.

Amid the ever quickening motion on the screen, Jim's face pressed into his little Sherlock's neck. Their breaths were coming faster, the boy gasping, squirming, his small hands clenching at the sleeves of Jim's jacket bunching the material together and pulling for whatever support he could get. Cheek pressed to cheek, the boy shuddered in Moriarty's lap, breath hitching. Jim's mouth hung open, his eyes unfocused in bliss. He hadn't climaxed, but it appeared not to matter.

They came down slowly. Jim turned his face into the young Sherlock's hair, just behind his ear, and closed his eyes.

The video ended.

Sherlock stared at the black screen for a long moment, eyes unseeing. Jim had evidently tracked him for years at a distance, following his progress through life until he thought it time to _test_ him. Test his mind, test his morals, test his worldview. Sherlock had passed everything Moriarty had thrown at him, and now the man would be coming to collect.

Anyone he went to for help would be in danger. Even his too-careful brother, who could scrub away all the evidence of Sherlock's misdeeds through well-placed whispers, would be at risk from someone as motivated and skilled as Jim. As much as they were currently at odds with each other, Sherlock wasn't prepared to shoulder the burdens and guilt that would fall on him should the last immediate member of his family die.

He lifted Andy's stolen phone and swallowed down his heart. _I saw the video. -SH_

The response was immediate. _Then go to the center of London Bridge, high noon tomorrow. We'll have good old fashioned showdown. -JM_

Sherlock curled in upon himself, trying to think of a way out. With the choice of location, it was obvious he was going to be given an ultimatum. He hadn't seen the nets closing in until it was too late.

* * *

In the dark rooms of 221b, John had managed to put his list together. He didn't know why he was bothering with this. It was all for show. He would give Lestrade the missing clothes, the laptop, a few other items, but the guns would be left unmentioned. Any ideas he had as to where Sherlock could have gone, though truly he had none, would be left unmentioned.

When John phoned the Inspector with the missing items, he learned that Lestrade was getting some very unusual stories from those involved in Andy's trade, ones that matched the description given in front of John. Missing chemicals, stolen merchandise. A _lot_ of it at that.

John talked to Lestrade for as long as he could take the man's attention away from his work. He tried to counter the myths about Sherlock that had been floating through the drug trade as best he could. He had only one problem - how could he counter what he had not known about, had only _just_ found out? He had no evidence to combat them, and although Lestrade thought the idea of Sherlock gathering a large supply of destructive chemicals and leaving a growing trail of bodies in his wake was absolutely ludicrous as well, he could not imagine from where the stories _had_ come.

John had a fair idea that they were just another cog in the machinations of the elusive M. Which he could not risk telling Lestrade. Without Sherlock by his side, it was hard not to be tempted.

Eventually he was forced to try to find sleep. The flat was too quiet. As John lay flat on his bed, staring through the ceiling for hours, he hoped, he _prayed_ , that Sherlock was alright.

* * *

On the other side of the city, Sherlock couldn't sleep either. He pulled John's stolen jumper out of the bag and wrapped the bit of familiar comfort around himself. The remaining hours of darkness were spent capturing the encoded video file and typing up all the pertinent facts he could think of relating to events as they had progressed. He compressed them into a passworded folder and uploaded everything to an online drop box.

Chances were quite high that he was going to die. 

Sherlock wondered what his brother would do when his burden was lifted, no longer a troublesome little brother to constantly berate and pull out the messy situations he'd made.

He wondered what John would do with the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underage scene warning: Between Jim and Jake, before the video ends. This one is slightly less graphic.


	15. Chapter 15

It was early the next morning when Anderson came rapping at Lestrade's office door. He looked like hell in a lab coat, his normally sharp features drawn and sickly from grief and rage. "Greg! I don't care what it is you're doing, _you have to look at these_ ," he grated, waving a stack of files in his hands. "Proof! Sally left me _proof_ about what that bastard was up to!"

"Anderson, what the _hell_ are you on about?" The heavy papers had nearly knocked over Greg's coffee. He knew Anderson was grieving and he didn't care if he was short with the man. They were working, and they were stressed, and he was not going to be nice until both of those issues were solved. And he had had enough with people going after Sherlock today. He needed a _real suspect_. He glared up at Anderson, put down his pen, and reached for the top of the stack with a put-upon sigh.

It did look like it was from Sally. Her handwriting in all caps was clearly written across the front. _"Greenwhich Fire, Case No. 1879"_ Inside, it looked like printouts from the original case. 

It was one Greg easily remembered. Family of four dead in the house, seemingly without explanation, not caused by the fire. It was one of Sherlock's, of course. He flipped past the first page, glancing dubiously at Anderson, but the second page did catch his attention. It contained stills of surveillance footage, showing a very familiar profile. Surveillance from a private camera, not CCTV. Greg paused. They hadn't known about this at the time. Apparently the neighboring house ran a home business… and fitted it with security.

He frowned, flipping through more. And more…. Some were similar. What appeared to be Sherlock at the scene before it happened. Evidence that didn't add up. Witness accounts that differed significantly after they had spoken with the consulting detective.

"I just got these in the mail. Secure delivery," Anderson said. "The address was handwritten in her hand. This was her insurance, that if anything ever happened to her, the evidence would still get out."

Anderson moved around to the other side of Greg's desk. "Just _look_. Photographs, altered witness statements, not-so-coincidental timing. Sally had told me about her project on Sherlock. She was completely, utterly _convinced_ he'd orchestrated the majority of the crimes he solved himself. And then she had a _convenient accident_." The man's broken, harsh tone said exactly what he thought about that. "Sherlock figured out what Sally was doing and _killed her_ to try to get rid of the evidence, but he didn't know she had spare copies triggered to be sent in case of her death or disappearance."

Ironically, the first thought in Greg's head was 'he's Sherlock; wouldn't he have thought of that?', which he promptly felt like an arse for. He was having a bit of a shock. He pulled file after file, skimming through them and tossing them aside only to stare at them like vipers when he was done.

They had to be fake.

But that was Sally's hand, he knew it. He'd seen it every day, year after year. "Have you double checked any of this?"

"I haven't had much time to corroborate with former witnesses and compare, but the few I tried at random seemed to check out. You _can't_ ignore this, sir. Not with all the recent deaths, all constables who _knew him_." Anderson hovered beside Greg's chair, just barely keeping himself from pleading. He'd never liked Sherlock, but Sally's death had pushed everything from active dislike to a personal vendetta. He was convinced Sherlock had killed Donovan and he wasn't going to let the psychopath get away with it.

" _Jesus Christ_ ," Greg breathed and swallowed thickly. "I know." He was locked in now. He had to pursue Sherlock as a suspect. He closed his eyes and steeled himself. Unbidden thoughts raced through his mind.

_What if it was true? What if all this time Sherlock had been solving his own murders?_ Greg would never have thought it possible for one man if he had not known Sherlock. The variance between cases was too great. Except for Sherlock Holmes, who could conceive of any number of ways a human could die, money could be stolen, a trail could be left, clues could be followed…. It was…possible. Sherlock was capable of such a feat. But Greg could not believe that he had spent year and a half working with a man like that.

"Alright. We're going to find Sherlock. We're going to bring him in, we're going to hold him, and we're going to go over these cases again. If we have enough concrete evidence, we're going to charge him."

* * *

Sherlock packed his things and reluctantly left the impromptu bolthole he'd made for himself. He spent the remainder of the morning carefully avoiding CCTV cameras and large groups of witnesses. He managed to sneak a bit of time close to the river, enough to consign the bag of incriminating guns to its depths.

He took a deep breath and, knowing that it was a risk, flagged what could possibly be the last cab he took in his life. The driver didn't seem to show any hesitation or signs of recognition, so Sherlock got in. He spent the ride texting.

_M - vatican. Coffee at usual spot. Our favorite duet. London Bridge at Noon. Do not risk yourself. Brother, I am sorry. Goodbye. -SH_

The cab dropped Sherlock at the London Bridge station. He had a few minutes to himself, bag slung over one shoulder as he walked the short distance that would bring him to the river crossing. Sherlock couldn't see anything unusual out on the bridge, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Moriarty would have something in store, tucked just out of sight.

The walkway was flat and broad, the traffic relatively light for London at this time of day. Sherlock walked out to the middle of the bridge, leaned against the guard rail, and stood staring out across the water.

He felt oddly calm, watching the people around him on the bridge. They were all completely oblivious, utterly boring - a couple trying for a child, a banker running errands on his lunch break, a secretary sneaking out for a smoke to soothe her nerves. Sherlock's fingers drifted absently to the patches on his arm, slight ridges he could feel even through the cloth.

Mycroft would have gotten his text within the last few minutes, probably putting it off to finish the endless meetings he always seemed to have scheduled. He'd have been thrown into confusion and-

Yes, there it was. The camera on Time Bank had turned, focusing out over the bridge. His stolen cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Sherlock steadfastly ignored it.

* * *

John must have dropped off to sleep some time during the night because he woke up to the sound of his phone. Instantly, he was wide awake. He grabbed for it and was sitting up in bed with his feet planted on the floor before he even heard the caller's voice.

It wasn't Sherlock. It was Lestrade.

"I need you to come down to the Yard." Greg's voice was like gravel. He sounded awful.

"What happened?" John's heart was pounding. He was already fumbling for his socks.

"Just come down." The DI hung up.

John was out the door less than five minutes later.

Lestrade was conducting a small team of detectives pouring over old case files when John walked in the main office. The DI did not look happy.

"What happened?" John demanded.

Most of the officers in the group turned to stare at him. One rose to his feet as though he were about to grab John, who quickly shied away in defense. Lestrade held out a hand to the man. "No. I called him in." He came around the table. "John, I need you to look at something, and I need to you answer some questions."

John's brows furrowed together, some of his worry merging into confusion. He glanced at the files, tablets, laptops, all strewn over their worktable, catching sight of a few familiar crime scene photos. Something deep in his gut started to sink. "What's happened?" he asked again, quietly this time.

Lestrade stood between him and the other detectives, blocking the table. He acted calmer than he looked. "Before her death Sally Donovan had opened a new investigation, an investigation on Sherlock." John's eyes met Greg's and for a moment they were the only two in the room. "She left behind an impressive collection of evidence."

John felt the tendrils of panic creep into his veins. Sherlock's framing, it was coming to pass. "No," he shook his head. "No, I don't care what she found. _No._ "

John was stepping back and Lestrade was stepping forward. "John—"

"It's a _setup_ , Greg!" John's voice rose. Everyone watched him disbelievingly. "Just like the chainsaw killing in Peckham, you _know_ Gasper wasn't the killer. _He had his bloody tongue cut out for Christ's sake!_ That's where this all started! _It's the same person!_ ".

"John, _calm down_ ," Lestrade cut in, voice sharp as ice. "If you know something, I need to get your statement."

Just like that all the breath was gone out of John's argument. His lips parted. He looked around the room to every pair of eyes staring at them. That was when he realized for the first time since arriving at the Yard that he wasn't a consulting detective's assistant anymore. He was a knowledgeable acquaintance of a suspect on the run, possibly an accomplice. They were being investigated. No one in this room was his friend any longer. He looked at Greg. Even if one wished he could be.

A harsh ringing cut through the tense silence, causing several people in the room to flinch. Lestrade's cell phone was getting an incoming call, but the caller's number was masked.

John turned away from him, a hand to his forehead. His insides were churning and he was grateful for the distraction.

Lestrade breathed out a sharp sigh through his nose, picking up the call. He couldn't afford to miss it, but his eyes were still on John. "This is Lestrade."

"Detective Inspector." A cool, soft voice filtered through on the other side of the line. It was vaguely familiar, the same mystery caller from a little over a year and a half ago that had never been traced. Sherlock's hidden benefactor.

There was a tension underlying the voice's smoothness, barely perceptible. "There isn't much time. Something has gone terribly wrong. Sherlock Holmes is in the middle of London Bridge at this moment and something is going to happen to him at noon. I need you to send officers to his location right away."

Lestrade stiffened in surprise.

The sudden change caught John's eye and he turned back to the DI, his gaze filled with barely concealed hope.

Lestrade wetted his lips, still holding the phone. "John, go down to interview room 3. Someone will meet you there in a minute." At John's look of sudden protest Greg needed to do little more than wave to two policemen who came up to John's sides and forcibly moved him along, shouting and grappling with his handlers. When John was out of the office, Greg turned his attention to the caller. "We're on our way."

"Hurry. I fear I won't be able to intervene in time." There was a significant pause, as if the man on the other end was gauging how much was safe to say. "He believes he's going to die. Use caution. Someone else may be coming for him."

Lestrade swallowed, his throat tight upon hearing the second voice of dissension from Sally's case. "Who?" He wrote out 'LONDON BRIDGE - CONTAIN, DO NOT APPREHEND' on a nearby pad of paper for the rest of the detectives. They flew into motion while Lestrade held the phone tightly to his ear.

"I don't know yet. Whatever's happened, he kept me in the dark until the very last moment, then sent what might as well be his equivalent of a suicide note." The pause was significantly longer this time; ragged breathing was just barely audible in the background. The caller was holding the phone away and trying to compose himself.

Greg waited. In spite of everything, he knew this might be the only opportunity he'd have to put an answer to a question that had been in the back of his mind for years. He took the chance. "Who are you?"

"Go to the bridge, Detective Inspector. Protect Sherlock, and you'll find out." The line disconnected without warning.

Lestrade let out the breath he'd been holding. "Damn." He refocused immediately, grabbing the attention of the few officers left in operations. "Go over the case files with John, see if you can get him to talk. He needs to know that he's _helping_ Sherlock, not incriminating him any further than he already thinks he has been. I need to get down to the bridge."

It wasn't a far ride, and Lestrade was already jogging down the hall by the time he'd finished his instructions.

* * *

Sherlock heard the squad cars long before he saw them, wails in the distance drawing ever closer, the sound echoing and stretched across the empty spaces. It didn't really matter if a Met informant had spotted him or if his brother had called them in with a twitch of his puppeteer's strings - the result was the same.

Sherlock turned his back to the guardrail and watched the officer's clear and close off either side of the bridge. It was all lower-ranked first responders; he couldn't spot the officer in charge.

Inside Sherlock's coat pocket, his mobile buzzed once. It held one text. _Showtime._

Lestrade was riding front and center of a sheriff's car when he arrived on the scene. The officers were waiting for him, and he would have been battling for jurisdiction with one of the other detectives if Sherlock hadn't been his case. Their cars made a wide barrier around the center of the bridge, using them as shields in case the lone figure standing against the rail had a weapon. Lestrade stepped out of his car, moving forward with eyes riveted on Sherlock.

* * *

Back at the Yard, John was sitting cooped up in an interrogation room. _Interview_ room, he mentally corrected himself with more than a small amount of spite. He had been given Donovan's case files to look over and what he'd found made him want to rail in fury. They were being set up and there was not a damn thing he could say to make anyone think otherwise. The two detectives working with him were as pleasant as ever. Conspicuously so. They kept saying how if he just went over this part here in this case, and that part there in that case, it would clear up a lot for them. They'd known him, known what a good person he was. They were on his side. And John couldn't believe how sick it made him feel because what they were saying was _true_. He _wasn't_ an accomplice and Sherlock _wasn't_ a killer and they _had_ known him, but _this was a part of their act_. They had only one job and it was to get him to talk. About anything. He buried his head in his hands and asked for a lawyer, refusing to utter any other words. He should have done that from the beginning.

They went on like this for a time. The two detectives began to get frustrated with him, and it started to show in their questions. He was about to resign himself to the thought of hours like this when the building suddenly shook. The lights went out.

* * *

There was a shifting of the barricade on one side of the bridge and Lestrade stepped through. The gap quickly reclosed behind him. Sherlock watched him approach slowly; he supposed that it was a moderately encouraging sign that the DI didn't immediately have his gun trained on him. He lifted a hand once Greg got reasonably close, motioning for him to stop.

"Alright, Sherlock." Lestrade’s tone was steady, neither pleading nor accusing. "Can you tell me what's going on?" He might have been walking up to Sherlock the consulting genius, asking him to explain what all the plebeians around him couldn't see. Greg held out his hands in the universal sign of peace.

Sherlock's gaze drifted briefly from Greg to the barricade of officers in the distance behind him. "A man from my past is taking great pains to disrupt and destroy my life, and I have reason to believe he's moved up from acquaintances, coworkers, and former dealers. I was instructed to come here at noon for 'a showdown', but I can't see what the endgame is yet." He cleared his throat. "Greg. For all that I know, merely being in close proximity could put you in danger. I would prefer it if I were not the cause of your death."

Greg hesitated. "This is the same guy who set up Gasper?" His stance shifted, a sign of uncertainty. "You ran from us. You left four bodies behind and you _ran from us_. Now, John says that was self defense and I'm willing to believe him under the circumstances. But…. That wasn't the only thing. This morning Anderson…." Greg licked his lips, paused, and switched sentences. "What happened to Sally?"

"This is. It-" Sherlock's gaze shuttered, flickering to the nearby rooftops before turning back to Greg. "I know Anderson has tried to convince you that I killed Sally and several other people. Moriarty is very, very good at what he does. John and I had dinner with him and we didn't even know. I could tell that he was odd, but he was so difficult, so impossible to read. He _becomes_ other people." Sherlock realized belatedly that he was rambling. His hands clenched. "He's only after me. If I keep other people out of it, give him what he wants, he'll stop killing people to get to me. I couldn't involve you and John any longer, not with the risk."

"His name is Moriarty?" Greg latched onto that and took a half step forward. He didn't understand that they were in danger and he needed to back off. He was about to speak again when someone called for him from the barrier behind them.

"Inspector!" It was DI Carter, shouting with a serious expression across his face. He held a phone tightly in his hand.

Greg glanced at Sherlock. They wouldn't have interrupted if it weren't crucial. He left Sherlock's side and crossed the barricade. "What is it?" he demanded.

"It's the Yard." The man's eyes moved from Greg to Sherlock, standing alone in the distance. "He's got the building under lockdown. It's a bomb threat," he growled. "There's hostages inside, no one's leaving. A small explosion went off. They found traces of mustard gas and cocaine dispersed in the air. He says there's plenty more where that came from and he’s threatening to use it."

Greg reeled. " _Sherlock?_ "

Carter nodded. "Threat was received by email. One of his known accounts."

Sherlock couldn't hear what was being discussed from that distance, but he could guess from the body language and the way Carter was staring at him. Something had just happened, one more thing being blamed on him in order to ratchet up the tension on the bridge. He decided to risk a shout. "Lestrade! What is it?"

" _Shit_ ," Greg swore under his breath. He grabbed the phone Carter offered him. Sherlock's email was open on the screen and Greg skimmed it, ignoring Sherlock's calls.

_No one enters, no one leaves. The perimeter is rigged and I will know. …. …first bomb was only a warning. There are multiple points of detonation. Besides the blast itself, each contain an aerosol dispersant of highly concentrated cocaine or mustard gas. Most likely the two will mix into the surrounding area. If the building's structure is not compromised… …. These measures will ensure my safety. My threat should not be taken lightly._ Greg closed his eyes. He trusted Sherlock. He did. He thought he did. He couldn't be doing this and still putting on an act of innocence. Not when they had him surrounded and, and…. The situation at the Yard seemed to be his last chance of surviving as a free man. Could it be that he was playing both sides at once, ensuring his release and leading Greg's trust along so that he would have an ally when the Met was looking for him afterward? 

Lestrade whirled around, stalking back through the barrier, back out to Sherlock. Uncertainty showed in his every step.

There was one factor in the New Scotland Yard building that Sherlock might not have accounted for in this equation, if he _was_ the one setting it up. Greg had to see if it meant anything. "The Yard's under a bomb threat!" Greg growled. " _From you._ "

Sherlock's eyes widened, then narrowed. Aside from it being one more spectacle made to incriminate him, there was little point in Moriarty threatening the yard. He had little attachment to the staff working there, aside from perhaps a sort of fondness for Lestrade, and Lestrade wasn't at the Yard. There was no reason for his brother to be there either - he rarely ventured out to deal with things in person if he could manipulate the situation from a distance. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have been pulled in for questioning, which left...

Colour drained from Sherlock's face. "John's there, isn't he?" he asked quietly. He'd been mistaken, thinking that leaving John in the dark and separating himself from his friend would keep him out of the crosshairs.

"Yes, he is," Greg confirmed. "He'll either be doused in gas or caught in the explosion if this thing goes off." He swallowed. That was where the mass amounts of stolen narcotics went. All those sightings of Sherlock by dealers, smugglers, his former contacts…it all led up to this. "So tell me. Are you _sure_ , are you _really sure_ there's nothing you can do to stop it?"

It was like the situation with Sally - he was being asked to make a choice, but he hadn't been told the question yet. Sherlock hadn't been called; Jim was waiting for him to take the initiative.

"I won't be sure until I find out what he wants." Sherlock dug his cell phone out of his pocket and selected the number that he knew would reach Jim.

Lestrade watched, barely breathing. He'd been warned about a third party by Sherlock's benefactor, by John, and by Sherlock himself. He had to make a choice. It had to be a personal one, the officers behind him only had one suspect and there was no way he could call them off Sherlock without concrete evidence to the contrary, but Greg himself had to choose to believe in Sherlock or not. And, in his gut, he did. If he was wrong, then the hostages at the Met were probably damned no matter his decision. But Greg believed in this strange man.

"Darling, it's good to hear from you. They must have told you about the little….hm…'situation' down at the Yard, yes?" A lilting voice cooed in Sherlock's ear.

"What do you _want_ from me?" Sherlock snapped into the phone. "I'm at the bridge at noon, as you asked. It was my understanding that if I kept away from particular individuals that you wouldn't involve them in this."

"And you were right in that understanding." Moriarty sounded perfectly pleased with himself. "But I think one last 'hurrah' is in order. Could the Great Detective Sherlock Holmes really slip away so quietly into oblivion? No? I didn't think so either." He was all but purring into the phone. "So here's the deal. You've been caught out, love. They found out about aaaall your past misdeeds and were going to put you away for a _very_ long time. Hmmm…but they didn't see the last card up your sleeve now, did they? Not until you had them in a standoff. See all those guns pointed at you now? They've got long distance snipers on you too. They're not going to negotiate a hostage situation. So saaad." Moriarty sounded anything but. "Only one thing left to do. With all other options gone, you'll either die by cop or rot in prison three lifetimes over." Finally, Moriarty paused and let the tension drag out. "Don't you think it would be better to end it yourself?"

Sherlock swallowed, turning in place to scan the rooftops; sure enough, in the shot period of time between when Lestrade had first begun to talk to him, small figures had taken up posts on the distant rooftops. He wouldn't be much of a challenge for a trained sniper to hit, as open as the bridge was.

"And how do I know I can trust you if I do this?" he asked. "I have no guarantees that you won't immediately kill everyone once I'm out of the picture, other than the fact that you'd derive less enjoyment from not being able to watch my reactions."

"Because you're not going to _be_ out of the picture," Moriarty breathed. "You'll be dead to them…but you're coming away to Hell with me."

Greg was watching him carefully. The others in charge behind him were getting antsy seeing Sherlock on the phone, but Greg held up a hand, asking them for time.

"Move to the railing, and climb on top of it," Moriarty quietly instructed.

Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. He lowered the phone and looked sideways at the DI. "...Greg, tell John I'm sorry."

Without further ado he stepped back to the railing. He was atop it in moments, climbing only made slightly awkward by the bag at his back and the phone in his hand.

"Sherlock…?" Greg spoke in surprise. "Don't." He stepped forward, but there was no way he would reach the man in time if he tried to pull him down. The dark haired detective made a stunning sight atop the ledge of London Bridge. He stood against a grey backdrop of English sky with the wind whipping his curly locks around his head. Greg had the strangest thought that it looked like a dark halo.

"You're going to hear a shot," Moriarty said, "and when you do, you're going to fall forward. I will be with you when it's over."

Sherlock spread his arms, giving Moriarty's implied sniper an easier shot. He shut his eyes and almost immediately heard a loud crack somewhere to the right and behind him. There was a sharp, bruising pain and the world shifted as he lost his balance.

There was nothing but the whistling of air and distance shouts. Pain flooded through him as he hit the surface of the water and was swallowed up by cold darkness.

They'd all heard the shot. 

Greg dove forward, bracing against the railing. Sherlock's body had submerged and wasn't resurfacing. He whirled around on Carter and the others. "Who the FUCK was that? _Who!?_ " he shouted, dashing back to the barricade.

Everyone looked stunned. There had been more than a dozen fingers on triggers pointed at Sherlock and one of them had fired.

"Get a boat down there now!" Greg was furious. " _And pray to god that hasn't set off the bomb,_ "

* * *

Beneath the bridge, against the heavy black current of the Thames, a strong pair of arms found Sherlock's waist. They jerked him close, against another body and against the pull of the current for a moment, then something snapped. They were moving, Sherlock and those hands. They were riding the current, deep underwater. Something hard pressed to his lips, plastic edges forcing their way inside his mouth. Air pumped into his lungs.

Sherlock gasped and convulsed, his body greedily sucking down air as nerve cells fired randomly from the shock. The part of Sherlock that wasn't being held captive by survival instincts noted that someone had grabbed him and was presumably pulling him to safety somewhere, but the pain and cold was eating away at the edges of his consciousness. He clung to the arm and breathed and hoped that they surfaced before he passed out.

* * *

A man in an expensive suit had dashed out onto one of the piers after the shot was fired, looking as out of place as a beggar in Buckingham Palace. He seemed frozen in place, frantically scanning over the waters.

The sight caught Lestrade’s eye, but Carter interrupted before he could make anything of it.

"The Yard's being evacuated," Carter said, relaying the information he was receiving over the phone. "They're safe. Greg, _it's over._ "

Lestrade glared at the man. " _No it's not._ " He brushed past the other detective, moving away from the ledge and back through the crowd of officers, jogging as fast as he could down the bridge to the traffic blockade. He had to get down to the water. He would fish through the river himself if he had to.

The odd man was still at the pier, looking more like a banker or bureaucrat than a random passerby, when Lestrade arrived. He held himself rigidly, gesturing at the river and arguing with one of the boat captains.

"...yes, I understand that you don't normally deal with jumpers, but this is a matter of some importance. I assure you that you'll be well-compensated for your troubles." The man had an umbrella in a white-knuckled grip as he tried to negotiate. "But only if we go now. Every minute we delay increases the likelihood that we never find him."

"You won't find 'im _now_. Lissen, I've seen a lot 'o these o'er the years. It's not a long drop but tha' don't matter much, th' water's too cold and the current sucks ye right under."

"You have sonar equipment, yes?" Greg cut in. The police had boats on the way, but they would be too long. Whoever this man was, he had the right idea. "Inspector Greg Lestrade, I need your boat." He flashed his badge. Even the most basic sonar would be something, and the minutes were ticking by.

The captain went from obstinate to confused, suddenly confronted by two people at once. The badge worked wonders for his compliance. He nodded. "Yeah, I got standard stuff fer fishin'. I guess if you’re insistin', Inspector, we can out out 'n' have us a look." He turned and beckoned them to follow him, leading them to a small sloop that had seen better days.

The stranger followed him to the gangplank, his dress shoes a stark contrast against the river grime and rust.

Greg turned to him, realizing in the last moment that he intended to go with. "Look, you had the right idea, but unless you're a pro swimmer I need you to stay here. The police have more boats on the way."

"Inspector." It was the same voice as the one on the phone earlier, anonymously delivering warnings and instructions to race to the bridge. The stranger fixed him with a look that was familiar with its stubbornness, the effect somewhat ruined by the red rimming his eyes. "With all due respect, I'm accompanying you regardless of your feelings on the matter."

Greg stopped. He found his mouth hanging open a little. He now had a pointed face, light, thin hair, and glassy eyes put to the voice he had only known over the phone. Years had gone by and he had never expected to see this man in person. He had to shake himself out of it before he lost any more time. "Alright." He nodded his assent and they climbed in.

The captain untied the craft from its docking and hurried behind the wheel. Quickly they moved out into the center of the river. Greg stared over the side, praying that something would break the surface.

The stranger walked around the boat until he located the fisherman's sonar device. He turned it on and began fiddling with it, adjusting the calibration as they drew close to the center. It was a low quality instrument, and the uncleanliness of the river didn't help their predicament; several large patches appeared on the screen that could be anything from a school of fish to floating debris. Nothing looked sizeable enough to be a body.

A million questions were building up in Greg’s mind, but, this was neither the time nor the place for any of them. Across the shore, he could see the Met arriving with their own boats. They would set up a net to skim the water. It would take too much time that they didn't have. Realistically, Greg knew that by now they did not have a good chance of finding Sherlock alive. If he hadn't surfaced, he would have been under for almost ten minutes. If the bullet hadn't killed him. If the current hadn't taken him. If the cold hadn’t….

His hands gripped the boat's rail. He scanned the surface harder, seeing nothing.

The other man seemed to have come to the same conclusion, staring off into the water without really looking. No body had surfaced, and no one could withstand the cold and lack of oxygen unaided for more than a handful of minutes. Chances were high that the current had already taken the body and it would never be recovered.

Sherlock was gone.

A look of pain passed over the man's face, quickly hidden with one hand while he gripped the railing. It was an impossibility, a day he'd feared might come to pass but had fought with every fibre of his being to prevent... and in the end had snuck underneath all of the safety nets and defensive walls to steal Sherlock away like a shadow.

For a few minutes more they searched, until the Met boats approached and threw their nets into the water. They moved when they had to, heading back to the pier. They would only be in the way.

Lestrade found himself at the unusual man's side. He reached out to put a hand on the hunched shoulder, not knowing who he was but realizing for the first time that Sherlock had many people who would miss him. More than Greg had thought.

The man sensed the movement and shied away at the last minute, stepping back to avoid the touch and dropping his hand. He eyed Lestrade as if he wasn't quite certain whether the man was friend or foe - quick, sharp darting as he took in small details. It was a familiar quirk set in an unfamiliar face.

Apparently satisfied by whatever he'd seen, the man squared his shoulders. "I expect that you're wondering who I am," he said, stating the obvious. The question had fairly radiated off the Inspector as soon as he'd noticed him, pushed aside in the greater concern for Sherlock's safety. Sherlock had always found it annoying to have to bother wasting breath on what was plainly visible, but he had learned that it was a useful technique. People were often comforted by the obvious, and it made one look less omniscient to ask for information rather than simply observing and deducing to the inevitable conclusion.

"Yes, I am," Greg said. He supposed he'd been wondering that for a while. There was something familiar in the man's movements, his eyes, his…something.

The boat slowed, bumping into the dock at the pier. The captain jumped out and hurried to tie it down while the two men spoke.

"I am-" _Was_ , but he couldn't bring himself to say it. "...Sherlock's brother. Mycroft. You needn't bother trying to notify next-of-kin. I'm the only close family left." Another thing he didn't wish to consider.

Greg looked thrown. The weight of the situation was still settling on him. "I…didn't realize he had a brother."

Sherlock never spoke of one. It would probably not be a good time to mention so. Greg had a thousand other questions, but…this explained a lot. He took a breath and looked into the man's eyes, noticing now that he was tall, like Sherlock. Greg straightened his shoulders as well. He held out a hand. "Greg Lestrade. But I imagine you know that already."

Mycroft took his hand and gripped it firmly, sliding into a more sociable persona now that he knew where the DI stood. "Yes, Inspector Lestrade. I researched you before entrusting my brother to you. I refused to let him work with anyone who was dishonest. And it's understandable that you didn't realize he had any family. I'm afraid we've been at odds with each other for some time. Sherlock often prefers to pretend I don't exist."

Greg realized the man was complimenting him in a roundabout way, but it was the last statement that caught him. He couldn't say it was unexpected…he had known Sherlock refused to talk about his family for one reason or another back when they'd first met. Greg had to inquire more than once if there was anyone who could look after him. The answer had always been no.

Just then a commotion came from the platform of the pier. Greg looked up and saw John running toward them, his footfalls heavy on the wooden surface. There was panic in his eyes.

"Where is he? _What happened? Where's Sherlock?_ " John was shouting even before he reached them.

Mycroft steeled himself as John raced toward them. Dealing with the loss of his brother was hard enough without having to watch his brother's partner break down in front of him. It was a selfish thought, but true; John had been one of those unexpected events in life, entwining himself in Sherlock's life with a sort of organic permanence that had opened up future possibilities he'd never thought possible for his brother. Given how obtuse and repressed Sherlock had been, it was doubtful he'd even realized the potential in what had grown between the two of them before-

Mycroft disembarked and walked down the pier to meet John, holding up one hand to slow him down.

John stopped, eyes wide but apparently not surprised to see Mycroft. Greg climbed out of the boat and walked up behind them. John's eyes flicked from one man to the other, taking in their expressions. His face began to crumble. "No…. _what…happened?_ " he asked again.

Mycroft's expression was brittle but, carefully neutral, endeavoring to show sympathy without revealing anything of himself. "He stood up on the railing, someone shot him, and he fell. He hasn't surfaced yet."

John looked like he was about to jump in the river before Greg caught him by the shoulders. "John! John, calm down. _We're looking._ "

John was fighting down panic, biting back comments about how fast they should be looking. He nearly hit Greg just for being there, and for leaving him at the Yard. "I didn't know… I just got here. _Goddammit._ " John gasped. "Back at the Yard they said he did it. And then we were let go…." His voice ended in a crack, cutting him off. He pulled away from Greg, shifting from one foot to the other like he was ready for a battle, but it was over.

"There's nothing to be done about it now. We can't... change what's already happened," Mycroft said softly. "But Sherlock was not the one holding the Yard hostage. He put all the files he had about his most recent cases into a drop box for me shortly before he came here... but that is a discussion for another time and place." They were not in a secure area, and Mycroft wasn't taking any further chances.

Both John and Greg turned to look at him. The curiosity in their eyes was dampened with the knowledge that whatever had been in those files could not help them. Yet the momentum of mystery they were riding hadn't come to a full stop either. This last bit of inertia was enough to put a halt to what could have been John's meltdown.

John swallowed, forcing himself still, but just barely.

"We need to know," Greg said, slipping back into professionalism.

"I assure you, I have no intention of holding back the information once I've retrieved it and cracked the encryption. We all want to know, and I'm not about to let whoever did this get away with it." Mycroft shifted his gaze from Greg to John. "This isn't a secure location, and if Sherlock was withholding information, he must have done it for what he thought was a good reason. Give me time and I'll arrange a safe place to hand over everything he left me." He couldn't grieve until that was done. Even now he was putting off thinking about what this all meant, how it would echo into a hollow, empty future.

They all were. The three of them stood alone on the pier in the center of a fading storm of lights and sirens and clouds. Sherlock's only friends. The search took place outside of the little bubble they'd made. Though happening all around them, the policemen going to and fro, the boats on the water, the men calling to one another, it all seemed distant.

John recognized this feeling as a state of shock. He didn't have to be a doctor, he'd felt it before. He could have been missing his leg again. Completely amputated, this time. It would hit him in stages, he knew. It would hit him all at once, as though he could have forgotten and just remembered, every single day. He knew what was to come because he was no stranger to grief, and he knew it would take him off guard all over again. He looked out up to the bridge, over the spot where Sherlock must have fallen. He looked over the water, but it was mottled with rescue boats. He wished it were still.

Greg nodded, letting John's attention quietly slip out of the conversation without comment. "Just let us know when you're ready."

"I will." Mycroft's gaze returned to John and lingered for a moment. The doctor was in deep shock and, considering his thoughtless impulse to try to jump in the water after Sherlock, not in a state where he should be left alone. As much as Mycroft wanted to retreat to deal with his own turmoil, it would be remiss of him to neglect the closest person in his brother's life. At this moment, John and Gregory were the only living ties he had left to Sherlock.

"Inspector, if you'll permit me, I'll see John home."

Greg looked into Mycroft's eyes, he might have been searching for Sherlock there, he might have been gauging the man's intentions, he might have been thinking also on John's wellbeing, but he nodded. "Please," then added for John's benefit, "We'll get together soon."

John turned away from the water only reluctantly.

Mycroft hesitated, then reached out and placed a hand behind John's shoulders, both a comfort and a means to steer him in the right direction. "I'll contact you soon, Inspector," he said before leading John down the pier and back to the street. He was expecting more of a struggle, but John walked like a man in a daze, compliant in his numbness.

"John," Mycroft said lowly, trying to get the doctor to look at him. "John, where do you want to go?" It was entirely possible that he _wouldn't_ want to go back to 221B so soon.

John thought about it. "Anywhere." They could have gone to the moon and John would have felt as if he were still standing beside the river.

He thought about asking what Sherlock had sent Mycroft, but he couldn't bring himself to care right then. He knew he would ask eventually. He knew the curiosity would strike him. He would need to know what had happened, why Sherlock had had to…. What would really burn later was the question of why Sherlock hadn't shared it with him.

Mycroft nodded and led John down the street until they came to a nondescript black car. It was of good quality and utterly boring at the same time, declaring quietly to the world that the owner was unimportant and easily forgotten. He got John settled into the passenger's seat before getting in on the driver's side and pulling out into traffic. He drove in silence towards Baker Street, letting John have space and quiet if he so desired.

Outside of his own turmoil, John did notice the amount of care Mycroft was taking with him. It was strange, something he would never have anticipated from the man he had first met in a deserted warehouse, half expecting to be tortured. But, it was not unwelcome. John was grateful that he didn't have to be alone, and that it was Sherlock's brother who had decided this for him. He stared out the window feeling at once grateful for the silence and the distress of the sudden hollow space left in Sherlock's wake.

When they pulled up to the flat on Baker Street, John's stomach sank. He went a bit paler realizing he would have to tell Mrs. Hudson.

Mycroft helped him out of the car, trying not to think about the fact that he should have been doing this for his brother instead. Even so, the routine was familiar and, in a way, comforting - he'd had to take care of Sherlock so often that it was second-nature to push his own thoughts and emotions aside to do what was needed. He accompanied John up the walkway and watched him unlock the door. "Would you like company for a while?"

"Yeah," John said without hesitation. He didn't think about whether it would inconvenience the man who was supposedly "The British Government". He was going to take the offer without guilt of any sort. "I would."

John's gratitude was in his voice. He didn't look at Mycroft as they took the stairs. He was grateful that he didn't see Mrs. Hudson either, though he knew that putting it off would only make the news harder in the end. He wasn't sure he believed it yet himself. Surely Sherlock, of all people, with all his backup plans, could have…. John swallowed a lump in his throat that had abruptly lodged itself there. He couldn't think about that yet. He was trying not to even think about the pronounced lack of Sherlock at his side yet. He knew he had to think about it, but every time his mind glanced the subject and then veered sideways, only to come back to it again a moment later.

He let them into the small flat. It was just the way he had left it. The sun was coming in lightly through the windows now, emerging from the grey skies of the morning. A few of Sherlock's things were strewn about after he'd hurried to pack and John had poked through them to see what he had taken. Afterward, he stood there for a moment, just looking at it.

"Go sit down," Mycroft said, the statement gentle but still a command. He hung up his coat and went to the kitchen without being invited, filling the kettle and starting the water boiling for tea. Quick investigation showed Sherlock's proper tea set lodged up on the highest shelf in the kitchen and covered in a fine layer of dust. Mycroft procured two mugs instead and went to the fridge to see if there was any proper milk to be had.

John did as he was told. He lowered himself into the armchair and immediately his body sank into it. He hadn't realized how exhausted he'd been, so early in the day it was. He had to remind himself that apart from the stress of the last few hours, he hadn't slept much last night. It might as well have been an eternity ago. He was tired down to the very bone.

John looked over to the couch and the other furniture in the room. Mycroft would probably sit in Sherlock's chair, and wouldn't that be just the strangest thing to see? He looked so out of place in their messy old flat.

Mycroft managed to find the box of PG Tips, the milk in the fridge seemed to not be hazardous, and there had been a small packet of chocolate digestives hidden in the cupboards behind a canister of oatmeal. Well aware that the presentation looked ridiculous, he placed the mugs of tea on the small plates serving as saucers, tucking a few digestives beside each mug's handle. John still looked shaken when he came out and handed the doctor his mug, but he wasn't breaking down.

Mycroft settled himself into the chair opposite John and tried his best to look at ease.

"Thank you," John said as he took his cup, having a feeling that Mycroft would appreciate even a small show of manners. He turned the cup around and noticed the small chocolate on his plate. He hadn't even remembered they'd had any. For some reason, the small gesture on Mycroft's part made him laugh softly. Mycroft was doing a good job at taking care of him. Usually John was the one who did that. He wondered whether Sherlock had always, somehow, found people to take care of him.

"You're welcome," Mycroft responded with a flicker of a smile. John was certainly more polite than his brother would have been - probably would have tried to trip him while making some sharp comment about the biscuit. He hadn't thought he'd ever miss the needling. Even now, he still felt like Sherlock would storm in at any moment, declare his presence anathema, and demand that he leave the premises.

Mycroft carefully avoided looking at the mess scattered about the room, concentrating his attention on John. "I'm afraid that I'm not well-practiced in dealing with emotional matters." With normal people, at any rate. "Let me know if you need to talk or would prefer not to."

That got another laugh out of John. He found it strange, that he should laugh at a time like this, that he should _need_ to laugh at a time like this. But he wanted to. His reaction was probably confusing Mycroft. "I can see how you're his brother," John said. "It's alright."

John considered the man across from him, wondering how Mycroft was taking this. He was putting on a brave face in front of John, but John suspected it was only that. He was giving himself something to do in seeing that John was alright. And that was…that struck a chord with John. This was Mycroft carrying on. John suspected that all he could do to return the favor was let himself be taken care of. He hummed softly and sipped his tea.

Mycroft nodded and busied himself with his own mug. A companionable silence stretched out between them. It wasn't quite like the Diogenes Club - John's direct gaze wouldn't have been tolerated within the club proper - but it was pleasant enough.

"We didn't talk, you know." Mycroft saw Sherlock's abandoned violin case and spoke before he'd realized it. He stared down into his teacup to hide his surprise. "Not often, not about anything of much importance. He couldn't, for the longest time, until he started playing." Mycroft seemed to realize that he was rambling, that his statements made little sense when strung together. "It was easier to vent emotions through music than through speech, so it seemed healthier to encourage him in that direction."

John's lips parted. "So that's how that came about." He'd spent many a night up with Sherlock and his violin, not a word said from the detective, gaunt and silent as a ghost even then, but expression coming out of the instrument all the same. John felt like he'd been offered a gem in the form of Sherlock's history. Maybe he could offer one in return. "He kept quite a collection of music. Not just for the violin, any genre. I went through it once, just looking for something classical. And he played jazz for me…" John trailed off, the memory of that night not so long ago hitting him. Sherlock standing on the sidewalk of Baker St., the frost in his breath and the warm glow of a shop lighting up his face.

"Yes." Mycroft frowned into his cup, wondering how much discussion about his brother would be helpful rather than harmful. "There was a... traumatic period, when we were younger, when he stopped speaking entirely. I convinced our mother to try music lessons. It worked, eventually, though it took a while before he'd speak again. He didn't like being left alone, so we ended up practicing together. Violin is awful for the first few years when you don't know what you're doing."

John winced, imagining Sherlock playing nothing but the discordant cacophony he sometimes played while in a bad mood or simply to rile John up. Like the last one, this memory was also painful. He folded his hands around his mug, trying to feel the warmth, trying not to think about Sherlock. "What did you play?"

"Piano, actually." Mycroft hadn't missed the wince; he'd misjudged again. He didn't know this man well enough to navigate the emotional pitfalls. He decided that perhaps it was better to let John lead the conversation.

It was funny that they'd started out by talking about Sherlock, yet neither of them wanted to go down that road. It was simply what they had in common.

John imagined Mycroft playing the piano as accompaniment to Sherlock and his violin. When it was too painful, he thought about Mycroft only. He had long fingers, well built for the spread of the keys. Sherlock had the same. "Do you still play?"

"Yes, for much the same reason. There's no one else to hear, but it helps me think." They hadn't played together for years, ever since they'd begun fighting and Sherlock had started on his descent into rebellion and drugs. "I don't have ample amounts of spare time in my line of work, but I make do with what I have."

The notion struck John then, and maybe it was the sudden loss of Sherlock, but he would have liked to hear Mycroft play. He couldn't imagine never hearing Sherlock play again. That was a thought as horrible as never _seeing_ Sherlock again. John tried not to let it show, the pain that this caused him, but he didn't know how to avoid it. Every subject was treacherous because everything led back to Sherlock. He was at a loss for what to do. It was like his life had just stopped.

Without thinking, he decided to say as much to Mycroft. "I don't know what to do," John admitted quietly.

"Neither do I," Mycroft responded, watching John with a soft sort of despair over his mug of tea. He had revenge to distract him, but after he'd found and had Sherlock's murderer punished, Mycroft had no idea what he'd do with himself. The punishment would never be to his satisfaction; no payment would _ever_ be enough for the loss of his brother, the center that he'd built so much of his life around. Even his work had been pursued in an effort to keep both of them safe, and he had _failed_. There seemed to be little point in anything anymore.

John gazed into his mug. "We should be drinking something stronger."

They would both be lost now, both alone, together in circumstance but missing the one thing that gave their lives direction. 

John sipped his tea, thinking of someplace far away. If he could imagine where Sherlock was right now, if he hadn't simply ceased to exist, he would imagine it were someplace that could keep his great mind and spirit occupied. That was when the man had been at his freest.

Mycroft gave a brief, humorless laugh. "We should, but I'm afraid I've left my stock at home. I should have come better prepared."

Home was another place he didn't want to think about. At least before he'd known that Sherlock was out there, even if they rarely spoke and never visited. Now the isolation was complete.

"Don't think you could ever prepare for this," John said with a downturn of his lip. He swallowed more tea. "Maybe next time?"

John couldn't say the mood would stick with him, this was all so sudden, but he didn't want Mycroft to disappear like he usually did. In fact, he was almost afraid of it. Maybe when they met with Lestrade…with the three of them, he wouldn't be so alone.

Mycroft seemed to predict John's train of thought as easily as Sherlock always had. He shook his head. "I cannot predict my work schedule, but there will be a next time. Many, if you wish. You..." He paused, not knowing whether the knowledge would be a comfort or a burden. "You meant a lot to my brother, more than I think you know, and more than he was capable of expressing. Put into the proper context, you are, for all intents and purposes, part of the family. The only family left that I care to see. I won't leave you to deal with this alone unless you wish it to be so."

John felt his chest tighten. He was pretty sure he was grateful, so grateful to hear those words, but happiness had never been so painful.

What John had suspected had been confirmed after all. Mycroft was alone. _They_ were alone. John raised his eyes. They landed on Mycroft's lapel. "I would like that." John's lips thinned into something that was barely a smile. "Yes, I would like that."

Mycroft's gaze slid sideways, another trait he shared with his brother when put into a situation that made him feel awkward. He nodded once and finished his tea. "I'm afraid I cannot stay any longer. I have things to take care of."

He rose from his chair and carried his mug into the kitchen, washing it out and leaving it to dry on the counter. He returned to John's side and held out his hand. "May I borrow your phone for a moment?"

John looked up at him curiously, but dug into his pocket and held up the phone.

He wondered if he were about to be investigated, if Mycroft was going to inspect his texts or look through his browsing history just to see what he could find. Not that he thought Mycroft suspected him of anything…it was just the sort of thing John expected from the Holmes brothers.

Mycroft took the device and navigated through the menu quickly, typing for a few seconds before handing it back. "My number," he explained when John looked at him in confusion. "It goes directly to my mobile. I cannot promise to respond promptly, but it's the best way to contact me. Feel free to give it to Inspector Lestrade as well, under the condition that it does not go beyond the two of you and you do not write it down."

John blinked. He hadn't expected that. "Oh. I will."

He pocketed the phone, feeling unexpectedly lighter, and rose to his feet. He saw Mycroft to the door. Though he was dreading being alone, he also knew that the fear was irrational. Mycroft's presence alone could not stop his thoughts from going where they would. Finally, he met the elder Holmes' eyes. "Thank you, for…." For everything. For being there. For being his brother. For taking John home… "Thank you."

"You're welcome, John." Mycroft paused, blankfaced and uncertain what else could be said. He finally turned and walked to the car without a word. Rude though it was, goodbye had too much of an air of finality at the moment for it to be uttered.

* * *

The arm around Sherlock's waist never loosened its grip, not until they broke air and freezing cold became biting cold.

Sherlock's body was dragged out of the river Thames and onto a muddy shore. Sharp stones and gravel ground together as sturdy boots dug into it, bracing and pulling the heavy man forward. They fell onto the shore. The body beside the detective was breathing heavily from the sudden intake of air and exertion. A hand patted Sherlock's cheek, then quickly rested over his chest, feeling for breath.

Sherlock convulsed as his body fought to expel water from his lungs, leaving him gasping for air and shivering like he was about to fall to pieces. Everything was a dark, hazy blur that his mind couldn't make sense of, survival impulses pushing coherent thoughts right out of his head. The parts of him that didn't hurt or burn with cold were worryingly numb. All that Sherlock could process was that he was no longer in the water and someone was touching him.

The hand pulled away, but another, smaller one, replaced it at Sherlock's cheek a moment later. A dark shape blocked the view of the sky, sunlight peeking out of the cloud cover behind it. Features began to come into focus. Black hair, black eyes, a small nose…a smiling red mouth. Then there were two hands on Sherlock's cheeks.

"The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist," a voice whispered reverently, "...and what a great Devil you will be."

"Mor-" Sherlock's voice cut off into a fit of coughing, his lungs not quite satisfied that they were free of intrusive liquid. He trembled under Jim's hands, pale eyes not quite able to focus on Moriarty. The man's face blurred, all dark eyes and grinning teeth.

"Shhh… it's alright," the voice whispered, warm lips barely touching his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is the last chapter for the first part of the story. I'll have the first chapter for the next part up within the hour. Part 2 is also where we really get into the graphic tags that you've probably been waiting forever for, so please take a look!


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